


A Prescription for Pain

by expected_aberrance, GreedIsGreen, WriterChick



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Collaborative Piece!, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Smut, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9796685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance, https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterChick/pseuds/WriterChick
Summary: All grown up now, Sansa runs into the man with grey-green eyes and silver-streaked temples that broke her sixteen year old heart.  Have the passing years prepared her for what's in store?





	1. How It All Started

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaborative piece. Each writer does a chapter and then passes it on to the next writer, around and around in a circle until the story finds its natural end. There is no plot here, just an ongoing piece with multiple authors. The more the merrier, so if you want to jump in, please message me on Tumblr so some order can be kept as to who's writing what chapter. Each writer only answers the comments on the chapters they've written, and just know that if at any point you no longer wish to be affiliated with this piece, AO3 requires that you remove yourself. I have started the first chapter to get the ball rolling! ~ WriterChick ~

Air slowly filled her lungs as she remembered how to breathe again, and her shoulders lowered as she relaxed her muscles.  Sansa hadn’t expected to see him ever again, let alone now, eight years later.  He was her first, in so many ways.

Then he wasn’t her anything anymore, and she had to go on; had to not give a shit.  He was living his life, and she needed to live hers.  In her darker moments, she considered reporting him to the authorities for screwing her sixteen year old self six-ways to Sunday, and then leaving her completely in the lurch.  But she never did, feeling just as responsible.

She picked up the white paper bag that waited expectantly for her to remove it from the pharmacy counter.  Her hand trembled as she pulled it close to her, and she hated herself for it.  After all these years, how could he still have such an effect on her?  His sideburns had silvered more, and permanent lines formed in his cheeks from years of mischievous smirks.  There were faint lines around his eyes now to match, and his skin held a texture that she knew would be smooth to the touch, but seasoned to the eye.  

His voice slithered into her ear, just as lewdly now as it had then, “Is that my sweetling?”  

Her whole body froze in sudden awareness of the predator stalking the tall grass behind her.  She ignored him at first, as most people tend to do with things they don’t know how to manage.  She stared ahead, resolving to wait patiently for her prescription.  Surely, the auditory hallucination behind her would fade away.      

And then she felt a warmth run the length of her back and she knew, she _knew_ , if she moved just an inch she would bump into something solid behind her.  Someone.  Him.  She closed her eyes and fought the urge to fall back into him, forget the years of self-doubt and turmoil, forget hating him for showing her so many feelings and then ripping them away from her, and just letting her fall.  His voice sounded again, “You look well, Sansa.  You’re more beautiful than ever _._ ”  

Knowing that she couldn’t ignore him anymore, she slowly turned to face him.  It was the eyes that caught her attention, those grey green pools.  She was just as entranced by them now as she had been back then.  Now, they told her a story of a man delighted at running into a girl he had ravaged when she was just discovering herself.  At that time, they told her things like:   _It’ll be our secret.  It’s okay to want it.  Let me show you._

Sansa stumbled to find the words to say to him.  Over the years, she had come up with all sorts of things to tell him, none of which were friendly.  A pharmacist at the other window called his name, and he smirked as he said, “Another time.”  He flashed her a couple more glances as he paid for his prescription and left.  After what felt like forever, her name was called, and she bustled over to the counter, foregoing the consultation piece.  She needed to get out of there; get away from the scene of the crime.

He wasn’t married, her father, or a creepy step-father.  It wasn’t wrong, even if it was a secret.  He was a childhood friend of her mother’s.  He had moved to the area, but needed a place to stay as he settled into his job, and went house shopping.  Sansa was flattered and flustered by the way his eyes undressed her each time she walked in the room.  In her braver moments, she actually flirted a little, in her haphazard way.  He wouldn’t take the bait, being the perfect gentleman; ever appreciative of the Stark hospitality.  

She had been dating someone at the time--a real putz.  Then again, weren’t all high school boys who donned lettermen’s jackets and drove suped up pickups?  Sansa had come home early from her date, tears streaking down her cheeks.  Her boyfriend had gotten drunk, and decided to try to take her virginity in the back of his truck.  Luckily, he didn’t succeed.  She kneed him to the point of uselessness, and got a ride home from one of her friends.  Sneaking into her dark living room, well after everyone had gone to bed, Sansa was startled beyond belief to find that she wasn’t alone.  The perfect gentleman, who never gave into her flirtations, was sitting in the dark living room looking at his phone.  

She tried to hide her tears, but couldn’t, and he rose from his seat to give her a friendly hug.  He had been drinking.  She could smell it on his breath.  So when he asked, she didn’t mind telling him what had happened.  There was a security in inebriation.  She could tell him anything, and he probably wouldn’t remember.  

As Sansa walked away from the pharmacy counter, clutching her prescription, she remembered his response into her ear as he hugged her: _He doesn’t deserve you.  You’re so beautiful.  You should be worshipped_ .  Sansa’s grip on her bag tightened into a fist as she cursed her sixteen year old self and her gullibility.  Her face grew hot as she remembered him ask her, _May I kiss you?_  And her timid nod against his cheek.  

He pulled away, gently guiding her to the big arm chair he had been sitting in, and motioned for her to sit down.  She did, confused, not understanding why she would need to sit for him to kiss her.  He looked at her with his dilated eyes and held a finger to his mouth, “Shh.”  She nodded her head, and then gasped in surprise as his hands disappeared under her skirt, sliding up the sides of her thighs.  He gripped the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down, slightly lifting her ass as he stared at her licking his lips.  She found herself licking hers too, while a thousand butterflies took flight in her stomach at the feel of open air hitting her womanhood.  Never before had she been so exposed, and there she was in her living room with a house full of people sleeping soundly in the silence of the night.  

He smirked, then leaned forward, bringing his head between her legs.  His hot breath against her skin sent shivers all over her.  She watched her knees shake with nerves as he brought his mouth to her, and her back bucked up off the chair when his tongue slid in between her folds.  His hands gripped her thighs, stabilizing them and assuring her, as he ran his tongue along her seam.  She could smell her own musky scent hitting the air, and she felt herself blush in embarrassment.  She almost apologized for it, but couldn’t form words as his tongue licked past a spot she alone cherished with her index and middle fingers each night before bed.  

She watched his head tilt up and down between her legs, and she let loose a rogue moan.  His palms squeezed her thighs in warning, and she bit her lip to quiet herself.  Sansa focused her attention on her own sneakers, suspended in the air, bobbing up and down with the motion of his ministrations against her clit.  She knew if she looked at him, she’d want more.  She’d throw her virginity at him whether he meant to take it or not, and scream her orgasm as loud as she could, bystanders be damned.  

So, she didn’t look.  She traced the patterns of the shoes with her eyes to temper the feel of the grown man buried between her thighs.  Finally, all his work at building up something exquisite paid off, and she felt her heart pounding a thousand miles a minute as she breathed heavily through her nose to quiet her pleasure.  He gave her a quick peck inside her thigh, and pulled himself up from his crouched position on the floor.  Sansa sat there dazed, her legs slowly lowering, and her hands reaching to smooth down her skirt.  She trembled a little unsteady, and avoided his gaze.  What had they just done?  Something she now knew, she’d let him do to her many many times.  

She searched the floor for her underwear, not looking up at him.  It wasn’t shame.  She didn’t regret this.  It was naivety, immaturity, simply not knowing what to do next.  Were they all done?  Was it his turn to sit in the chair?  She cursed herself as she kept her eyes down, looking for the cotton bikini underwear she lost in this most daring kiss.  He had walked away, stopped at the coat rack, and rummaged through his coat pocket.  When he returned, he dangled some red lace panties in front of her.  The tag was still on them, and they looked expensive.  Sansa finally looked up, silently questioning him.  Were these meant for someone else?  Or did he know what he would be doing to her that night?  He whispered down, “Take these.  Wear them tomorrow night if you want me to do that to you again.”  

Sansa walked past the automatic doors, and barely looked both ways before crossing the parking lot to her car.  That was how it all started--the panties.  She took them from him and he disappeared into the dark, much as he had disappeared now.  One minute he was over her shoulder at the counter, letting his presence be known.  The next, he was strolling away, not a goddamned care in the world.  

Somehow fate landed him in her town, in her pharmacy, at the exact time she was there, _years_ after he’d abandoned her.  She unlocked her car door and hopped in quickly.  Gripping her steering wheel, she hated herself for putting those panties on so long ago.  She despised how good it felt to share their little night time secrets.  She loathed that she lost her virginity bent over a couch, breathing in the smell of latex through her muted orgasm as her family slept walls away.  But mostly, she cursed herself for keeping the same red lace panties to this day.  They were bawled up in the back of her dresser, under her bathing suits where no one, not even her, would look.  

When Sansa thought of Petyr Baelish, she spit on his name for how he left her wanting.  So young and in love, she thought something might come of their trysts.  That was until the day she woke up, and discovered that he’d moved out.  

Sitting in the parking lot, Sansa calmed herself.   _I’m not that girl anymore.  I grew up._ She had changed.  Eight years had gone by.  She had gone to college, got a career, been proposed to, had a life.  She was not some nervous teenager giddy over the prospect of getting caught with a man between her legs.  She told herself it was a stupid infatuation.  She mistook sex for love.  It happened; especially with teenagers.  

She was twenty-four now; much more knowledgeable in these affairs.  It wasn’t love the way he whispered to her just then.  It wasn’t love the way he snuggled himself so close to her body, in such a public place.  And she hoped it wasn’t love that required her to fight back every muscle in her body not to sprint ahead, and follow him as he walked away.     

 


	2. Corruption of the Soul

Sansa drove straight home in an agonized flurry, trying not to let the tears fall. Everything she thought she knew suddenly seemed in question, and when she slammed the door to her rental and threw her purse and script on the table, she very nearly screamed in her frustration. Her knuckles were white as they gripped the table’s edge, and when she caught her reflection in the mirror above it, she hardly recognized herself. She thought she was past this, but seeing him again just raised all this coiling doubt that sat in the pit of her stomach, and she was determined to prove it wrong; to prove him wrong.

She abandoned her belongings in the entryway to her home, not deigning herself to the idea of putting them in their proper places as she normally would, and marched down the hall to her bedroom. The dresser was there, and the drawer with that bit of red lace was staring back at her; taunting her. 

She marched over and yanked the drawer open, scattering the swaths of cotton, lace, and silk in more elegant, demure hues in her frantic search, until she found her quarry tucked away, just where she had left them. She was in a rage, and the red lace cried out for her to charge, take possession, prove that she wasn't that same sixteen year old twit who was foolish enough to care for such a deceitful, lecherous man. 

The silken material glided between her fingers as she pulled them out, and held them aloft to stare. It was just underwear, she told herself; nothing of consequence at all. She tossed them on the surface in front of her, and eagerly, her digits unfastened the blouse she wore and slid the skirt she’d donned this morning to the floor. The pale, drab fabric of her bra and underwear followed, and the red lace soon found their home, nestled between her creamy thighs, settling lightly against the contours of her bottom and mound. 

Sansa walked to the full length mirror in the corner to examine herself. She had changed, but somehow not. She was taller, her hips and shoulders wider with maturity. The curve of her ass was rounder, and peeked out beneath the cut of the lacy material in a tempting greeting. Her breasts sat fuller amidst her chest, and instinctively a hand lifted to cup along the bottom, and a thumb grazed at her nipple. She was a woman now, and not a willowy teenager.

Despite the physical changes to her person she couldn't ignore the way these panties made her feel; like a goddess, desirable, wanted, and wanton. 

Sansa closed her eyes, and she could almost feel his hands along her skin, smooth and hot and insistent as they explored her every inch; worshipping every exposed expanse of skin with the caress of his lips, his tongue, the rake of his teeth. Flashes of grey and black clouded the space behind her eyes, and her own lithe fingers found their way into her mouth, the pads of them soon wet and caressing at the taut nipple in an imitation of his tongue, and she sighed at the contact. 

Fire reeled down her spine, to sit low and heavy in that secret cleft between her legs, and her free hand drifted down over the flat of her stomach until it reached the gossamer lace that covered her auburn curls. Overcome, Sansa gasped his name, as fingers dipped beneath the fine material, and she cursed as she found herself already wet on her memories of him. 

“Well, what’s this?”

A shocked Sansa turned to face the tall, broad man that she called fiancé. In all her desperation to prove she felt nothing for a man that stole her innocence, she had forgotten about the man that was supposed to be her future.

“Harry!” she beamed with her best faux smile.

The beefy blonde strode forward. “I've never seen these”, he said as he reached for her, but before he could touch the lacy knickers, Sansa was gripped by a sudden apprehension, and pushed him onto the bed. 

Sansa did not want him to touch these; to taint the pure corruption that they represented with his coarse fingers. She did not want him to be the one to drag them down her thighs. The girl she was had suffered a baptism of debauchery to earn this lascivious gift, and she would not surrender it to Harry’s attentions. It was not his to play with.

He grunted, surprised by her impulsivity, and she did her best to laugh and sooth him. “I wanted to surprise you,” she lied. 

Quickly she stepped out of the racy material, and moved to strip Harry of his attire, attempting to distract him in the best way she knew how. Shoes and socks, pants and shirt were discarded to the floor, and she was on top of him, rubbing herself shamelessly over the bulge in his boxers before he could protest. 

Ragged fingers dragged over her torso. “I think I could get used to coming home to this. I thought you didn't like it when I came straight from the worksite.”

“Well, today is special,” she countered.

“It is?” he questioned. 

Sansa covered his chapped lips with her own in an effort to buy time. She racked her brain for an excuse before it fell on something obvious and innocuous enough that he wouldn’t question. “We had our first kiss this time two years ago. Don't tell me you don't remember?” It was a blatant lie, but Harry had never been one for dates. 

“Oh, yeah, of course. Though I'm a little disappointed that I didn't get to unwrap you myself,” he said as he flipped her onto her back. 

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, and maneuvered them down his hips to be kicked off. “Next time,“ she promised. 

No sooner were the words out of her mouth, than the man was dragging a wet tongue sloppily along the column of her throat and easing into her, not realizing that it wasn’t he that she was longing for. His movements progressed quickly into a mindless rutting, and she couldn’t help but liken herself to a broodmare at his demanding pace. She struggled not to think of the stark contrast between the man that she was thinking of before and the one on top of her now. 

Harry was good, and he was honest, and she told herself that she could be happy with him. But as the scent of his sweat and musk, and the stench of asphalt from his daily grind drifted into her nose, she wanted to cry. She wanted to taste the sweetness of mint, and breathe in the sandalwood and spice that was so wholly Petyr. She wanted to feel his velvety hands on her body, not the rough callused ones that pulled harshly at her nipples and thighs right now. 

Sansa felt her mind detach from the young man laboring above her. She closed her eyes, and she could see just what a mangled sight they made. Him, grunting and moaning, his sweat drenching her pliant and still form. Never before had she felt like such an apathetic receptacle to his lust. She could be anyone and he wouldn’t care, so long as the needs of his body were fulfilled.

Harry was lost in his own pleasure as he thrust into her, never even looking beyond the ache of his cock to make sure the red-haired creature beneath him found her own, and as her mind returned to her, Sansa found that it was just too much. She needed him off of her, so she did the one trick that she’d employed countless times when he would take too long and she was tired or uninterested, and hadn't been able to put him off. She moaned loudly, “Oh yes, Harry! I’m close! I’m close!” And the walls of her practiced sex clenched around him in a rhythm she knew he enjoyed, as she made a right spectacle of screaming his name. He came with a loud groan, and collapsed next to her. 

Finally, Sansa, despoiled and disheartened, felt as though she could breath again, but a strong arm reached out to drag her into him. She begged off citing that she wanted to clean up first. As she made her way to their shared bathroom, a stream of his seminal contributions trickled down her thighs, and she felt a tightening begin to form in her chest. No, she thought. No. I will not cry over this. 

She felt dirty, and depraved, but not from Harry’s lackluster love making. There was a corruption in her soul that plagued her, coiled like a snake ready to strike, and undo every step of progress that she’d thought she made in her life. Her whole body was shaking as she closed the door behind her, and she knew a wet cloth between her legs couldn't undo the flagrant defilement that she felt in every nerve ending and crevice of her mind. 

Sansa jumped into the shower, and let the water run over her, scalding away the grime that she couldn't see. She tucked her head under the stream, and let the sobs take her as she braced her palms against the slick tile in front of her. If she couldn't feel the tears on her face, she argued, they didn't exist. She wasn't sure how long she stayed exactly, but when the racking of her body stopped and the spray ran cold, she turned off the tap. 

She deftly dried off and wrapped the towel around her naked form, before exiting to the bedroom. Harry lay asleep, snoring, arms and legs akimbo as he hogged their queen sized bed. Sansa discarded the towel to lie at the edge on her stomach, and pulled the sheets over her strewn form. 

Spying over the edge of the mattress, she saw the red lace peeking out at her from under of the bed where she had thrown it, just within reach. Her hand dropped down to fondle the material, and the soft pads of her fingers ran along its smooth texture until at last they wrapped around it, and lifted it up to her face. 

Sansa breathed in, and recognized the pungent scent of her own arousal. That night he first kissed her came vividly back into her mind, and she found the remembrance oddly comforting after the latest desecration of her being. She tucked the panties into the pillow case, not wishing for Harry to ever see them again, and allowed their lingering aroma to relax her. 

Idly, Sansa wondered if she would ever be capable of conquering this, and for the first time she realized, that until she found the answers she needed, it would never happen. Petyr Baelish had haunted the recesses of her mind for too long to be ignored, and she resolved herself at last to seek him out, to be released from his influence. Maybe, then, she might truly allow herself some semblance of happiness.

A yawn overtook her, and blue eyes closed against the myriad of confusion that befuddled her mind, and for the first time in years, she suddenly found a deep, undisturbed sleep.


	3. O Fortuna

“--and over here we have one of our most popular features, a work by Pytho Malanon entitled, ‘Water Path.’ We pride ourselves in being able to offer the ideal combination of traditional and modern to suit the needs of your special day, and personally I think this piece captures that perfectly.”

Staring at the beautiful aquatic sculpture, water cascading in smooth, rippling arcs down to pool on black stone flush with the marble on which they stood, Sansa had to agree with the events coordinator guiding them. The venue was astounding, really, from the elegant ballroom to the intricately designed gardens outside. It would certainly be everything she and Harry could hope for as a setting to their wedding but for one (rather large) caveat--according to the information packet they’d been given, the cheapest package option was more than twice the upper limit of their budget. She could tell from the look on her face that the woman had some idea of their financial constraints.

“I'll give you time to think about it,” the planner said diplomatically. “Please let me know if you have any questions.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, Harry chorusing the sentiment from beside her. When the woman had walked out of earshot he turned to her.

“Well, what do you think?” Harry’s clear blue eyes were questioning. There was a streak of dirt on his nose that he’d missed in coming straight from his work site to the appointment which had been bothering her for the entire tour, but she hadn’t the heart to tell him before now. Besides, it hardly stood out from his dusty hair and clothes anyway.

She smiled sadly. “I think it’s perfect, but…”

“It’s way out of our price range,” he finished for her wistfully. They were paying for almost everything themselves, and though Sansa made good money at her job and Harry’s income was decent if subject to the fluctuation characteristic of contract work, their pooled contributions didn’t approach the funding required for the lavish weddings it seemed everyone of their acquaintance were throwing. Harry had inherited little from his family, and Sansa didn't want to ask her parents for this; they were still putting Arya and Bran through school, and had Rickon to think of in less than a year. She should have been more thorough in inquiring what the exclusive site’s prices were before they came. Harry was about to say something else when his phone rang. He glanced at it before looking at her apologetically. “It's my boss. Sorry, love, I have to take this.”

She waved him off distractedly, turning to admire the indoor waterfall and wondering what she was even doing here. If she could've come up with a good excuse to cancel the appointment, she would have, but they had made it weeks ago at the recommendation of a co-worker. The encounter with Petyr had her questioning every choice she’d made about her life--her engagement to Harry especially--and she’d made little progress on that front in the days since. It wasn’t like she had ready means to contact him, she reasoned. He hadn’t exactly left a forwarding address or phone number when he’d abruptly abandoned her eight years ago. Her mother would be the best source of information, but she could hardly drop the question into casual conversation. _Hey mom, remember the shady guy you let stay at our house and gave ample opportunity to shag your underage daughter? Do you happen to have his email lying around?_ No, that would not go down well. She would find a way, however; she needed to take back the control of her life Petyr had so effortlessly, casually wrested away from her. Sansa wondered if the incident had even a fraction of the impact on him as it did her; sadly she concluded it was likely he’d marvelled at the coincidence--perhaps reminiscing about his conquest for a bit--before dismissing her from thought and going about his business. No matter; she would have her reckoning, then excise him from her life as neatly as he’d done to her all those years ago. Lost in thought, she was startled to suddenly sense a presence behind her. She thought it was Harry, sneaking up behind her as some sort of unfunny joke. An instant later, she wished it had been.

“Hello, sweetling.” That familiar voice rolled down her spine in waves, seeping into all the places within herself she had managed to claim back since she'd been blindsided by him at the pharmacy. It felt less fantastic coincidence and more a nightmare she couldn't wake herself from. Petyr’s lips ghosted a path down her neck, his breath heating her skin, the fingers playing in the curtain of hair he’d swept aside to enable his assault on her person the only true contact between them even as his very being felt molded to her back. He’d always been fascinated by her hair, she remembered. He was standing impossibly close to her--if she turned, she would be touching him, and she had no room to step away unless she wanted to go swimming in the water feature in front of her. He hummed, the rumble reverberating in her chest, “I’m so very glad to see you again.”

He inhaled deeply and she was unable to suppress a shiver. Sansa felt her traitorous body responding to him, heat building low in her belly, arousal starting to dampen the practical cotton panties-- _not red silk--_ she’d chosen that morning. She jarred herself out from under the fog of his influence, picking up the pieces of her pride and indignation, and whirled around abruptly, fury mounting. Instead of retreating, he’d stood his ground, resulting in them pressed nearly flush together, which he appeared not bothered by in the least. She planted her hands on his chest and pushed him away forcefully. He almost seemed to lean into her for half a beat before stepping back, amused. Petyr was the exact opposite of her fiance in every way, neatly dressed in a sharp black suit instead of stained jeans and a wifebeater, dark hair with silver at his temples contrasting to Harry’s sandy blonde, green-gray eyes deep and murky rather than guileless blue--lithe, lean and clever when her future husband was coarse, bulky and deliberate.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she spat angrily.

The crinkles around his eyes and mouth deepened in mirth. “I just happened to stop by to check up on one of my investments. Quite fortunate, don’t you think?”

“You own this place?” It seemed absurd for Petyr Baelish to be the proprietor of something so mundane as a wedding venue, indecent even. She began to suspect luck had nothing to do with their encounter, that perhaps he’d known of their booking and decided to accost her here for nefarious reasons of his own. A healthy amount of paranoia was advisable where he was concerned.

“Yes. Several of them in fact.” He grinned with more than a hint of derision. “I’ve found the marital industry quite profitable, if a bit tedious.”  He eyed her up and down, and she felt uncomfortably naked in the perfectly serviceable blouse and skirt she’d worn to work. “I have missed you, my dear. I think you've missed me too.” He brought a hand up, clearly intending to touch her again.

“I'm getting married,” she blurted out automatically to forestall him.

He dropped his hand and snorted. “Yes, I’d gathered. To that piece of heavy plant I passed by on the way in, I take it?” He tilted his head to the side as if in disbelief.

“He’s a project manager,” she returned, feeling the need to defend her fiance, if only because Petyr had relinquished the right to question her life choices long ago, whether he even had any in the first place.

“How nice of him to bring a bit of his work with him wherever he goes,” drawled Petyr sardonically. Sansa clenched her fists, bringing them up almost unconsciously in an echo of a fighting stance. He caught her left hand in the long, deft fingers of his right and raised it for inspection. She was so taken aback by the impudence she could do nothing but let him. “For a man no doubt familiar with large slabs of stone, it’s a shame he didn’t put more effort into this one.” He mused with off-hand cruelty, eyeing the the modest ring Harry had been so proud to bestow upon her.

She tore her hand from his grip, incensed. “How dare you?”

He drew his mouth to the side in habitual sneer. “Please, I’m sure he's very handy when large things need moving, but I sincerely doubt you find him terribly intellectually stimulating,” he remarked dismissively.

“Oh, is that what you thought you were doing, stimulating me intellectually?” she snapped, fighting his contempt with her own, and crossed her arms.

His eyes danced in amusement as he gave her a filthy leer. “I seem to recall a rather intense thirst to _learn_ on your part, sweetling.“

She was going to kill him. The restless energy thrumming through her veins, prickling under her skin, making her feel flush all over as she stared at him was definitely rage, _not_ anything else. Before she could retaliate, however, they were interrupted as her lumbering intended stepped back into the large room.

“Sorry babe, where were we--” Harry trailed off as he looked up from his phone, only just now noticing the stranger standing in front of his fiance. From his angle, he could probably see Sansa’s disgruntled expression but not Petyr’s lascivious grin.

“Babe?” Petyr mouthed with a raised eyebrow before turning around to greet him. Oh, she was going to slap that smirk right off his smug face. She knew now that she’d never been anything more than an amusement to him, the bastard. Harry stepped over to stand beside her uncertainly, studying the newcomer with some apprehension.

Petyr thrust out a hand in welcome. “Petyr Baelish, old friend of the family,” he declared goodnaturedly, his expression deceptively friendly and unthreatening.

“Harrold Hardyng,” her fiance returned warily, taking her former lover’s hand in a firm grip to assert the masculine dominance he instinctively felt was being threatened.

Petyr smiled engagingly as he held Harry’s hand a moment too long. “Yes, she was telling me all about you. You strike me as man who knows his way around a pile of rocks,” he intoned smoothly. Harry’s brow furrowed, clearly uncertain how the remark was intended. Petyr continued affably, “I’ve had a devil of a time with several of my building projects, and I could use some expert advice.”

Her dim fiance decided he was being complimented, and beamed proudly, slipping a heavy arm around Sansa. “I’d be happy to help, Mr. Baelish.”

“Call me Petyr, please.” He glanced back and forth between them slyly.  “I was telling Sansa I hoped you were satisfied with the facilities we have here, as I’d love for the two of you to choose us to host your joyous occasion.”

Sansa didn't understand the objectives of the game he was playing with her, only that she was losing whatever it was--badly. She tried to hide her discomfort. Her fiance had no such hesitance about showing his bafflement. “She never mentioned you,” Harry said in confusion, exchanging a look with her.

“I didn’t know he was the owner until just now,” she asserted, shaking her head. And if she had, she wouldn’t have come within a mile of it, not with Harry in tow at least.

“A happy coincidence, no?” Petyr’s teeth flashed dangerously. “So, what do you think?”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. Sansa stepped in, trying to extricate herself and her obtuse paramour from the humiliating situation. “It's a bit out of our price range, I'm afraid,” she said, managing to sound regretful around gritted teeth.  

Petyr had the audacity to look almost scandalized. “I wouldn’t dream of charging you a penny! Consider it my gift to the two of you.”

Sansa balked. “We couldn’t possibly impose--”

He waved her off. “Nonsense. Your mother would have my hide if she found out I was standing in the way of your eternal happiness," he said, smiling with galling self-satisfaction.

Her fiancé looked delighted, exclaiming, “Well that’s wonderful. Thank you Mr. Baelish!”

She blanched, trying to dissuade him. “Harry, I don’t think--”

“Sansa was just saying how much she loved this place, weren’t you babe?” Her fiance ignored her protest, nudging her with his forearm. Sansa clenched her teeth. She had no idea how the situation had gotten away from her so quickly.

“She's always had excellent taste,” Petyr purred, practically licking his lips as he eyed her.

“Thank you Mr. Baelish. We’re very grateful for your kindness,” she ground out, the tension in her tone readily apparent to Petyr but not her undiscerning intended.

“How many times must I ask you to call me Petyr, my dear?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She buried the memory of murmuring his name over and over under her breath while perched at the side of her parents’ outdoor pool, one hand clutching the cold tile edge, the other grasping at his wet hair while he fucked her to oblivion with his tongue. He looked at her like he knew what she was trying desperately not to think about. His grin deepened indecently as he drew a white slip of paper from a pocket, handing it to her. “Here's my card. Please call anytime, for _anything_ you might need,” he added, eyes burned into hers meaningfully, and she fought a blush that couldn’t decide if it stemmed from anger or something much less wholesome. Petyr shook her hapless fiance’s hand once more, then, before she could react, leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek with avuncularity he had never earned before striding away.

“He seems nice,” Harry remarked, completely clueless. He was anything but, Sansa seethed to herself. Now, somehow, she’d been trapped into holding a ceremony she was uncertain she still wanted, to marry a man she wasn’t sure she still loved, hosted by her cur of an ex-lover. She stared at the card he’d placed in her hand, almost crushing it in her wrath, his name and number in stylish copperplate mocking her. When they next spoke, she vowed she would be ready for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to WriterChick and GreedisGreen for letting me contribute to this piece!


	4. People Change

Sansa closed the blinds to her office, and shut the door behind her.  She turned off the overhead light, leaving just her desk lamp on as she rubbed her forehead to ease the tension of another visit from Harry.  Had he always irritated her this much?  Feeling something for him had required a lot of effort on her part from day one, and she hated herself for that.  It was the broken part of her that couldn’t appreciate a decent, hardworking man.  

All the girls at work fawned over Harry whenever he stopped by.  They would get caught up in his muscles and wholesome smile, and they’d all gather around to keep him company until they finally couldn’t stall retrieving Sansa anymore.  They told her how lucky she was to have bagged a real stud like him, and that they would make such beautiful blue-eyed babies.  It irritated her how they threw themselves at him, only because she didn’t suffer the same urge they did.  

She made the mistake one day of sharing Harry’s effect on the girls with him, and he ate it right up, winking and smiling a little too much at them when he brought her coffee.  Sansa gave him an annoyed look that was mistaken for jealousy, leading him to wrap a burly arm around her waist.  His voice was a gravelly attempt at sensual as he told her that he would have to show her who he wanted when they got back home.  He kissed her cheek and then announced that he had to get back to work, giving her a wink meant just for her as he left.

That was the difference between him and Petyr; one of the many, anyway.  Petyr would not have waited until they got home.  He would have taken her right there, in her office, the bathroom, or even her car in the parking lot.  It wouldn’t have mattered where, only when-- _immediately._  Their relationship, if that is what you would call it, was at it’s core, impulsive.  It was about excitement, and secrets.  It was about doing something you weren’t supposed to with someone you’d better not.

Sansa felt her face heat at the memory of their time together, and her breasts press tight against her bra as she breathed deeply.  The memories had been coming back more and more lately, and Sansa felt the tingling effects reverberate through her body with each one.  She’d fought against them constantly, and found her resolve weakening.  Sansa needed relief, and she wouldn’t get it this evening--another dull date night with Harry.

Her eyes roved over to the door, checking to see that she had indeed locked it.  She didn’t do this often, didn’t make a habit of it, but every now and then she gave into the impulse.  As she unzipped her dress pants and slid her hand under her panties, her eyes darted around the room, checking the closed blinds to ensure no one could see.

She knew she’d already be wet from her thoughts, but when her fingers confirmed it, she still shut her eyes and bit her lip at the revelation.  Her mind wandered to where she always went when she indulged in such private delights: Petyr.  It was okay to enjoy him this way, no real threat in this one-sided relationship.  She pictured the night she came back home from cheerleading practice, all sweaty and tired.  She told her parents that she was going to hop in the shower only to find Petyr in the bathroom waiting for her.  He covered her mouth to quiet her surprise, as he whispered in her ear, “May I wash you?”  She nodded her head and he slowly released her mouth, kissing each place he stripped bare.  Each time she moaned too loudly, he pulled away from her, his eyes alight as he mouthed, “Shh _._ ”

Sansa’s fingers found their groove and she was breathing heavy in her office as she remembered undressing him, how he stood proudly before her without an ounce of modesty.  She had seen the scar that trailed down his torso enough by then to no longer be fazed by it.  She remembered feeling so exquisitely wicked looking at their clothes piled on the floor, and knowing her parents were wide awake roaming the house.  Their perfect angel had snuck a man into the shower to soap her body and fuck her against the cool tile.

She could hear the sound of her slick arousal sliding with each back and forth brush, and she felt like she would bite through her lip at the memory of his orgasm pulsing inside her.  Well after the water had run cold and they were both covered in goosebumps, he bit the back of her neck to muffle his release.  Her father had called through the door, “Sansa, did you fall in?”  Petyr smiled against her shoulder as he caught his breath and gently pinched her nipple to tease her.  She suppressed a yelp and controlled her voice enough to shout back, “Almost done!”  

It was difficult to meet her father’s eye for a while after that, feeling both uncomfortable and excited.  She especially savored Petyr’s proud grin as he watched her hide her guilt in front of her unknowing family.  He never seemed to feel any remorse, only ever exuding certainty.  And Sansa was a moth to that flame. While Harry was self-assured in the things he could do, Petyr was confident in the things he could get her to do.

Sansa breathed through her climax, gripping the edge of her desk with her free hand as she happily drown in the waves of pleasure that rolled over her.  As each euphoric muscle spasm got further apart, she was able to pull her hand free from the confines of her pants.  Not having a sink to wash in, she wiped her fingers dry with a tissue from her desk before fastening her trousers again.  After another deep breath to collect herself, she was up and headed for the bathroom to wash up properly.  She unlocked the door and pulled it open, only to come smack against the grey-green pools that she’d just been rubbing one out to.

He wore a smile that didn’t touch his eyes as he studied her in her sated state.  When he was satisfied with whatever it was that he found, he moved past her, walking into her office uninvited.  Sansa turned on her heel and followed, purposely leaving the door cracked open as she hissed, “What are you doing here?”  

“You never called,” Petyr shrugged, taking a seat opposite her desk, gesturing for her to join him.  Sansa strode over to her chair and sat down, glaring daggers at him.  

He had been talking to Harry, frequently, much to her dismay.  She had tried to throw Petyr’s card away, but Harry saved it, insisting that it would be bad business not to follow up with him.  Sansa didn’t care if it was bad business, Petyr was not someone to let into their lives.  The Starks had made that mistake long ago. She tightened her lips as she said, “I don’t have to.  You talk to Harry all the time.”  

Petyr was sitting back in his seat as he grinned, “He is quite _eager_ to work with me, isn’t he?”  He paused leaning forward, the lamp light catching every ounce of smug his face held, “I remember when you were eager to _work_ with me too.”  

Sansa’s face heated, and she felt her hands fist as she gritted through her teeth, _“Leave.”_

“So abrupt, sweetling.  So cold.”  Petyr flashed her his eyes, “I didn’t want to believe Harry when he shared with me how frigid you’ve become, but I see now how it could be true.”

At the mention of Harry, Sansa bristled, “What?  What are you saying?”

He chuckled at her, “It’s not what _I’m_ saying, so much as what _he_ is.  Men talk, you know, when it’s just men.”

Sansa felt her heart speed up.  What had Harry been saying?  Could she even trust Petyr to be truthful right now?  

Petyr pulled a frown as he said, “Harry boasts about the beauty he gets to _‘bang_ ’ whenever she lets him, which I gather is not much.”  

Sansa felt her heartbeat in her ears.  That son of a bitch, airing their private life like this.  And that selfish prick, eating up every word.  

Petyr wet his lips as he ran his finger suggestively over the arm of the chair, “I thought it couldn’t be true.  After all, you were always so receptive to me, so hot under my touch.”

Sansa felt a stir low in her belly and small gush add to the wetness in her panties at his suggestive gestures.  She had to focus, regain her senses, and get him the hell away from her.  “People change.”  

“Gods, I hope not!”  Petyr laughed, before gripping the arms of the chair.  He rubbed his palms over the end, as if needing the tactile sensation, “I have very fond memories of you.”

She crossed her legs in her chair, giving herself a supportive squeeze, angry at her body for needing the pressure so soon after she serviced it.  She shook her head at him, not allowing herself to engage this way any further.  “Why are you here?”

The side of his cheek twitched.  “I want you to work for me.”

“ _What?”_ Sansa’s eyebrows shot up at the suggestion.

A mischievous smile grew on his face as he explained, “I am looking to purchase space for one of my establishments.  Is this not a real estate agency?  And are you not a realtor?”

“There are a lot of them out there, feel free to take your business elsewhere,”  Sansa shot back, and then unable to catch it before it flew out of her mouth, she continued, “You had no problem doing so before.”  

She instantly regretted it, watching his ears perk up in interest.  He sounded almost hopeful as he pointed out what she hadn’t actually said, “You did miss me.”  

“Ha!”  Sansa crossed her arms over her chest and scoffed, “What happened was eight _years_ ago.  It was six weeks of my life easily forgotten.”  She held up her left hand, to give him another view of the ring he previously mocked, though still served as a valid testimony to her commitment to another.  She gestured to the room around them, “As you can see, I’ve obviously moved on.”  

He ignored her, focusing only on one detail.  “It wasn’t six weeks.”  His voice contained a mild undertone of irritation as his gaze seared into her.  “It was supposed to be.  But it wasn’t.”  

He was right, it wasn’t.  It was five weeks and four days, not that she had counted. Sansa furrowed her eyebrows back at him.  Why was he annoyed right now?  She was the one that was left in the lurch, abandoned.  She hardened her voice as she said, “Yes, I know.   _You left_ early, when the underage piece of ass finally bored you.”  

His eyes widened in surprise at her sudden blunt ferocity, and for a moment he looked completely disarmed as he breathed, “Is that what you think?”  

It was what she knew.  Sansa leaned back in her chair, rolling her eyes and sighing in dismissal.  “Don’t pretend there was anything more there than what there was.  I’m not sixteen, you don’t have to whisper beautiful lies in my ear anymore.”  

He swallowed, not replying, only his eyes moving to track her.  After an uncomfortably long silence passed, Sansa stood up and said, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”  

Petyr rose, his reluctance to do so showed in his slow and deliberate movements.  A step towards the door brought him a step closer to her, and Sansa fought the urge not to back away.  He had looked hurt at her words, though beneath the wounded exterior, she could see a determined resolve that boiled behind his eyes.

Sansa almost startled when he reached for her hand, and brought it to his mouth to offer a parting kiss.  She wanted to yank free from him, avoid the intimate nature of his goodbye, but allowed the imposition.  His eyes were closed and his lips were pressed to her hand when his nostrils flared and he audibly sniffed.  Sansa’s knees wobbled in mortification as she realized what he was smelling.

He slowly opened his eyes and stared up at her, not yet lifting his lips from her skin.  His pupils dilated and a low groan emitted from him, feral as he registered what was on her fingers.  His mouth contorted into a grin borrowed from the devil himself as he purred over her knuckles, “I guess people don’t change that much.”  

Sansa would have stuttered if she had any words to utter.  Her face, among other places, heated and her heart raced as his eyes taunted her for her scandalous behavior.  Satisfied with her visibly shaken presentation, he turned to leave, his confidence restored.  When he paused in front of the doorway, he smiled back at her.  “I expect you’ll have some listings ready for me to review by the end of the week.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to GreedisGreen and expected_aberrance for editing. Grammar has never been my friend, so I count myself lucky to have these two amazing writers help me with it.


	5. No Sentimental Fool

Perhaps an ordinary life with an ordinary husband, an ordinary job, and a herd of ordinary kids wasn’t in the cards for Sansa. She had given it the good old college try thus far, but it just so happened that normalcy, as others might define it, didn’t suit. It was like wearing slacks that were six inches too long. She kept tripping over the excess, and cursing her own clumsy feet.

Sansa’s failing was that she always wanted more, but never quite had the courage to reach out and take it; to risk the meager accomplishments that she’d gained and demand better. Nevertheless, that ambition, that thirst for greater, persisted. It was unfortunate, however, that her inclinations leaned more towards the self-destructive.

Sansa wove falsehoods around Harry, around her parents; created the perception of the faithful fiancee and dutiful daughter. Regrettably, she was neither of those. She was a wrecking ball on the upswing, just anticipating the ride down. The only question was, how much damage would follow in her wake?

Petyr seemed the only person to perceive this flaw in Sansa’s character, and he was more than happy to exploit it. Between the harmless flirtations and furtive glances, he knew. He _knew_ she wanted more. So, he pushed. He pressed. He twisted her expectations of what life was supposed to be. When he left, her entire world remained tilted and she was never quite able to fit into it again. Still, it didn’t stop her from trying to be what people expected.

Sweet Sansa Stark that aced all her classes, and dated the high school jocks, and captained the cheerleading squad, and, and, and…

“Do you like that one?” Her mother’s soft voice broke through her sullen contemplation. 

“Hmm?” An absent-minded hum escaped her throat as she faced her mother, Catelyn Stark; her mind still only half present to what they were trying to accomplish today. 

“That arrangement, dear.” Catelyn gestured to the sticky, laminated page that her fingers had been toying with. “Do you like it? You've been staring at it for awhile now.”

Sansa blinked at her mother, trying to force down the tumultuous feelings that twisted her, gut to psyche; struggling to remember what the purpose of this whole endeavor was. A quick glance around the room revealed an office decorated in soft whites and pastels. Diaphanous curtains flowed around the windows, and on every surface were vines, ferns, flowers. The latter imagery seemed to finally prick some sort of recognition and break her from her trance-like state. Ah, yes--floral arrangements.

Sansa’s unsteady gaze strayed from Catelyn’s inquisitive face back down to the book in her lap. Sitting on the center of the page was a bouquet of blue roses nestled in between white; baby's breath peeking hesitantly from between delicate petals, and white satin ribbon and tulle draped around the stems. Her pounding heart suddenly sank into the pit of her stomach.

_A blue rose._

Sansa’s brows knit together at the recollection. Petyr had gifted her a single blue rose on their last night together. How had she forgotten that?

 _“To match the color of your eyes,”_ his voice echoed softly in remembrance.

Sansa’s vision narrowed until all she could see was the black behind her lids, and in that moment she tried to recall everything she hated about him. Petyr was a lecher; a scoundrel of the worst sort. He took advantage of her dumb teenaged self while she was in a fragile state. He used her, and he left her. She held onto that anger; a life raft in a sea of disappointment. Resentment, it seemed, was the only thing holding her together since the man had reappeared in her life.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa schooled her features to something she hoped exuded indifference. She glanced down to the book again, trying to stare down the image on the page, as though her eyes could burn it away. “I'm not sure,” she replied weakly to her mother’s prodding. 

Sansa bit the corner of her bottom lip, then asked the perky blonde (What was her name again? Myra?) sitting at the desk in front of her, “Is there any way I could see something in person? I'm more of a… tactile… person.”

“Of course,” the annoying twit beamed, and rising from her desk, instructed them to follow. 

Silently, Sansa wondered if it was a requirement to be a Chipper Charlie to work in this industry. Or maybe being surrounded by flowers all day just made a person naturally happy? Nature’s prozac.

Down the hall they trailed the bouncy bob and sway of her ponytail through a glass door. The overwhelming scent of faux flower stench hit Sansa like a brick wall; a violent assault of her senses. The cloying undertone of rubbing alcohol was reminiscent of a doctor's office, and bile rose in her throat. She was certain that this reaction was not an intended consequence to the surroundings, so she swallowed it down, and fought against the clench in her belly; forced her face to appear passively interested to the words coming out of the woman’s mouth. 

“Here we are.” The nitwit announced it as though it weren’t perfectly obvious. “Examples of everything in the sales book should be here. Keep in mind,” the florist cautioned, indicating to the samples before them, “these are all made of silk flowers. They give you a good idea of the size of the bouquets, but not the weight. The actual arrangements will be much heavier with the real thing.” Turning to face her guests, “You don't want to get something so heavy that it trips you up down the aisle or makes your maid of honor’s arms fall off mid-ceremony,” the woman tutted with a grin that Sansa was sure she meant to be disarming, but came off more sneering. 

Row after row of bouquets and centerpieces were scattered among the tables. A few pedestals held more elaborate arrangements, with long tendrils of flowers and fronds hanging over the edge. From the corner in which they entered, it almost looked like a Renoir painting turned to life. All delicate hues and gently blended colors stretching the expanse of the room. Catelyn was already running her fingers over different pieces as she strode forward. Sansa chose to hang back, hesitant to show any appreciation for the beauty, false as it was.

Their guide stepped back and assessed Sansa carefully. She seemed to see something, to recognize something that Sansa herself hadn't been quite able to confront. “I'm just going to leave you ladies here to look around. Take your time. I'll check up on you in a few.”

As she watched Myrta(?) go, Sansa wondered what she saw. Could she have read the reservations that Sansa was having? Could she see just how unhappy she was about the prospect of becoming a bride? 

Truth be told, Sansa had never intended it to get this far with Harry. Especially after the little birth control screw up, and the subsequent actions to _remedy_ that situation. Sansa didn't feel guilty about what she’d done. She was not ready for kids, nor was she willing to be tied to Harry because somewhere between switching her script and a condom failure, she managed to get knocked up. Rather, the ordeal made her realize just how little she cared for Harry; even strengthened her resolve to end things with him. Unfortunately, intentions do not often mirror actions. 

At the time, Harry found himself suddenly buried in under his work, unable to spare more than a few minutes for her, but it was a relief for Sansa. She was in the middle of studying for her realtors exam, and avoiding the chance for drama seemed the better practice. There was no rush. Of course, it all came to the fore soon enough.

The opportunity to sever their relationship never presented itself. They had barely interacted with one another for the previous month, and Sansa was tempted to just allow their contact to drop; allow Harry to infer the end of their connection himself. Then, the invitation to dine with her parents was offered, and they were insistent on Harry’s presence. Sansa relented, as she often did when faced with her parents desires. 

After the main course, when Sansa left the room to grab dessert for the table, she entered again to find Harry prostrate in front of her, shoving a half carat diamond in her direction. She looked at Harry. She looked at her parents. All their faces were so hopeful. It took her only a moment to realize this was planned. Her entire family awaited her answer so expectantly, and she couldn’t bear to disappoint them, so she said yes. 

Sansa said yes, and convinced herself that she could make this work; that she could learn to love Harry. Proposing in front of her family was emotional blackmail of the worst kind, but perhaps marrying him would act as some sort of atonement for all the wrong she had done in her short, selfish life. Perhaps, she could change.

Or, as Sansa had recently come to admit, perhaps _not_. Despite her words to the contrary, Petyr spoke the truth when last they met. People don’t change. However, that did not mean she would automatically jump into his licentious bed again. _Oh no._ So what if the sex was amazing, and he made her laugh, and challenged her mind when he wasn’t pushing her body to the limits of orgasmic bliss? _Not. Going. To happen._

Sansa lackadaisically strolled through the tables, picking at the chipped polish on her nails. The reds and pinks and blues and yellows of the myriad bouquets danced in her periphery, yet she did not see one of them. She shadowed behind her mother over the cool tile floor, as she had in so many things, very nearly crashing into her when she made an unexpected stop. 

Catelyn stood in front of the blue rose bouquet from the sales book. “It is beautiful. Very simple and elegant,” Catelyn stated as picked the arrangement up to examine it. “Here,” she ordered, and thrust it into Sansa's hand. “Let’s see how you look with it.”

Her mother gave her a reassuring smile, but Sansa knew her own held a dour expression. She wanted nothing more than to throw the meddlesome thing down and stomp it into pieces. Instead, she held it dutifully at her waist, awaiting judgment.

Her mother scanned Sansa over with an imperious eye before placing her hands on her hips in annoyance. “Can you stop acting as though this is some great inconvenience and take this seriously? You’ve been lost in that head of yours all day. We’re talking about your wedding here,” Catelyn chided.

Sansa raised a hand to her temple, and let out an aggrieved huff, “I know. I’m sorry.” The hand holding the bouquet dropped to her side. “This is just… a little overwhelming,” she whined, hanging her head low.

Catelyn waved Sansa’s complaint away in derision, “Well, you did leave all the planning until the last minute. Most brides have this stuff figured out at least a year out, and you’re trying to do it in four months.” She snatched the faux flowers from her daughter’s hand. “It is a lovely bouquet though. It would contrast well with the pink theme.”

Sansa fought not to gnarl her face at that--pink. She had originally suggested green to be the wedding’s color theme, but was quickly dismissed. Green was known to be unlucky. Maybe there was something to that. Afterall, green was the color of Petyr’s eyes; though, sometimes they were grey. And in the dark, when his hands roamed her body, his pupils blown wide, they were velvety black. Heat suffused Sansa’s face as her body recalled those smooth digits gliding over her flesh, down, down, down. 

Damn him! Damn this wickedly Pavlovian response. Sansa’s body ached at the memory, and she knew her serviceable cotton undies were in danger of being soaked through. She averted her mother’s perceptive eyes, and buried her face hastily into a nearby bouquet, pretending to examine it. 

Once she felt the blush fade sufficiently from her cheeks, Sansa finally felt confident enough to speak. “I don’t know,” she groused. “Nothing feels quite right.” Nothing about getting married to Harry the Oaf felt right. Her shoulders slumped in resignation. It would be so much easier to walk away from this if their lives weren’t quite so intertwined. Half her business came from the projects he worked on. The house they rented was in both their names. Not to mention all the little assets they’ve mutually accrued in the months since the engagement. She was thoroughly caught, and it rankled now in a way that it hadn’t prior to Petyr’s reappearance.

“Tell me about this venue that Harry was raving about it at dinner the other night. Maybe if I know more about it, I can help with a little of the planning,” Catelyn suggested as she hooked her daughter’s arm in her own, and led her through the silken flowers.

Sansa bent her head down, and fiddled with a peeling cuticle on one of her nails; the pain of it as she tugged the dry flap of skin further and further back acted as a welcome distraction from the poisonous topic. “Oh, well, there’s nothing set in stone yet. I mean, we’ve been offered a place free of charge, but I hesitate to take it,” Sansa said.

“Free of charge?” Catelyn questioned with incredulous smile and a raised brow. “Who offered you that deal?”

“Actually, it was your old friend, Mr. Baelish,” Sansa said as she glanced up from the reddened flesh.

“Petyr?” Catelyn’s jovial face fell, and her voice held a trace of surprise. “I didn’t realize you two were in contact with one another,” she said releasing a shaky breath, then dipped her head as teeth worried at her lip.

Sansa closed her eyes and shook her head, quickly interjecting, “We aren’t.” Letting out a sigh, she explained, “Harry and I ran into him as we were touring the facility. I’m surprised he didn’t say anything to you, actually.”

“Me? Oh no.” Catelyn shook her head with vehemence. “I haven’t seen or talked with Petyr in years.”

Bewildered, Sansa exclaimed,“What?! You two used to talk all the time when I was growing up. I remember, because it drove Dad insane.” She snickered lightly at her father’s obvious jealousy.

Her mother revealed a reluctant smile. “Yes, well, sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.” She pat her daughter’s forearm, and left Sansa wondering what offense was so egregious that her mother would cut ties with her lifelong friend. Before she had time to ask, Catelyn continued, “It’s a generous offer, though. Harry seems keen enough to take it.”

“He does,” Sansa admitted. “I can’t help but feel it’s too much.” She bent her head to study that annoying strip of skin that had plagued her all afternoon. Gripping between the nails of her thumb and index finger, she ripped the errant cuticle at last from its tenuous hold. It hurt, but relief came swift on the heels of its extrication.

“I understand better than most,” Catelyn said with a bit of a chagrined curl to her mouth. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I will offer one piece of advice. Petyr is a savvy business man. He doesn’t do anything unless it will benefit himself in some way. Make sure that you fully grasp what you’re signing up for if you do accept his gift.” She gave her daughter a brisk side hug around the shoulders, and they broke apart once again.

Skirting down the aisle, Sansa toothed the corner of her thumb nail as she thought on her mother’s words. The choice to reject Petyr’s gift had been put on hold due to Harry’s reluctance to offend the man, but Petyr always had some scheme going, some plan in play. It was a trait that she quickly caught on to when something slipped out of his panting lips as they were lying together, naked and spent from their vigorous physical gymnastics. She wasn’t fool enough to believe his interest in her stemmed from some deep unabating love. There had to be another angle that she was missing. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst idea to keep a closer eye on Petyr; to protect Harry, of course.

Eventually, their floral consultant, Marta(?), emerged from her brief interlude. It took another hour before Sansa finally relented to her mother’s pestering. She chose small centerpieces of white gardenias and pink peonies (final numbers yet to be determined), but it was her mother that pushed the blue rose bouquet for the ceremony. Sansa only agreed so as not to disappoint, and most certainly _not_ out of a sense of _sentimentality._

There was no place for _that_ in this farcical affair.


	6. Caveat Emptor

 

Sansa checked and rechecked her makeup in the sun visor mirror, the cool professional look of it as much armor for her upcoming confrontation as the dark well-fitting skirt suit she’d chosen that morning. She tried not to second-guess herself yet again for agreeing to this, letting curiosity overcome caution, rationalizing that as long as she kept her wits about her, she could get through it relatively unscathed. The opportunity to prepare rather than be blindsided by him as in previous encounters bolstered her courage. Since her mother’s odd--not to mention suspicious--reaction to the news of Petyr’s offer and his unexpectedly vehement insistence on setting the record straight as to the precise length of time their affair had lasted, she’d had trouble letting go of the conundrum that was his motives. She wasn’t anywhere near ready to trust him at his word about anything--if she ever would be--but she would listen to what he had to say. Gathering up the materials that would serve as her armament for the afternoon, she shoved them into her bag and hoisted it up on a shoulder, then exited the car with a sense of determination. She waited for the  _ beep  _ of the doors locking before making her way the block and a half down the street to the meeting point. Taking comfort in the steady click of her heels on the pavement, she readied several options for an opening salvo. Petyr was already there waiting for her at the entrance of a restaurant Sansa had never been to before due to a combination of absurd exclusivity and ludicrous pricing. The battleground location had been his choice, of course. As she neared him, she watched his eyes rove over her in undisguised appraisal. It was hardly unexpected, but nonetheless irked her enough to settle on a combative approach to begin their meeting. 

“Hello, sweetling,” he drawled with almost palpable insolence. 

“Do you own this place too?” She crossed her arms defensively to stave off any unwanted contact as he stepped toward her. Personal space seemed to be a foreign concept to him, at least where she was concerned. 

Petyr tilted his head to the side with a smirk. “No, but I did make reservations. And the steak is supposed to be excellent.”

He offered his arm but she declined to take it, transferring her bag to the shoulder closest to him as a shield. He raised an eyebrow in amusement but made no mention of it. They were greeted by the pompous host and seated with little further drama, to Sansa’s relief. Petyr seemed to be on his best behavior, which immediately made her even more wary. A snooty waiter soon came over to pour water and take their order. “For you, miss?” 

“I’ll take the white truffle and greens salad, please.” She’d carefully chosen it as within the bottom quartile of prices but not their cheapest offering, though she’d have been able to purchase an entire garden at the same cost anywhere else. 

He nodded in condescending approval. “Very good. And what would you like today, sir?” 

Petyr glanced over the menu, inquiring, “Would you recommend the sirloin or ribeye?”

The man practically hummed with pride. “I’ve been told by the chef that the sirloin is especially fine today.”

Petyr nodded good-naturedly. “I’ll take that then.”

The server could barely contain his delight. “Excellent choice, sir. How would you like it prepared?”

“Bloody if not still mooing, please,” he replied with an affable air that seemed to tickle their waiter but made Sansa want to smack him with the heavy menu binder. 

“Of course sir. Can I offer the lady and gentleman something to drink?” their attendant queried with an over-wide smile. He and Petyr appeared by unspoken agreement to have embarked on a smugness contest that Sansa wanted no part of. She shook her head, already exasperated and having no intention to imbibe anything that would put her at a disadvantage, but her companion took little notice, ordering what she guessed would be one of the more expensive wines on their menu. Between their current location and the disdainful remarks he’d made about the size of the diamond in her engagement ring, she wondered what in their history would have made him think her shallow enough to be impressed by the wealth he was casually throwing around. It was almost insulting. 

After the supercilious man left them alone, Sansa took the opportunity to retrieve the files she’d brought and passed them over to Petyr. Minimizing his ability to bring up extraneous and no doubt impertinent subjects would be key in dictating the course of their conversation. Furthermore, the introduction of such props reduced the intimacy of the meal, or so she reasoned. “Here are several sites meeting your specifications, commercially zoned, all available at reasonable prices. You didn’t mention specifically what sort of business you wanted to put there, so I added in market information, but they’re roughly similar in demographics.”

He shuffled through the folders, glancing at each for a moment before returning the weight of attention to her. “What would you choose?” he asked, stroking his beard, a habit quite familiar to her. 

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Of those? None.”

She could see her answer surprised him in the minute widening of his eyes, but he recovered well. “You do understand the purpose of this is to entice me to purchase what you’re offering, darling?” His condescending tone grated, but had an undercurrent of interest that she savored. 

They were interrupted by the waiter returning with the wine, and after the requisite dramatics of ensuring it was adequate for their needs, the man filled both their glasses with more generous pours than she would’ve expected given their surroundings before leaving the bottle. She had the irrational thought that Petyr might have conspired with their server to get her drunk. Ignoring the inappropriate term of endearment he’d employed (just another of many, really), she withdrew another folder from her bag, thicker than the others, and slid it across the table to him, cautiously retrieving her hand before he could cover it with his ‘accidentally.’ “I’d pick this one.” 

His eyes bore into hers for a long moment before he looked down at the contents of the file. He scanned the first few pages briefly before his gaze returned to hers, studying her carefully.“This building is two steps away from being condemned,” he remarked, sipping at his wine. 

“It is indeed, an eyesore in an otherwise upcoming part of the city,” she concurred, index finger casually circling the rim of her own glass which she pointedly wasn’t indulging in. 

He pursed his lips, taking on a calculating expression. “I take it there’s something more to this than a waste of my time. Not that it ever could be such in your presence, of course.”

He leaned closer to her over the table, and she resisted the urge to flinch. She soldiered on, “The local councilman has made it a personal crusade to revitalize this neighborhood. It’s already undergone significant gentrification and residential shift to skew young and wealthy. I’m told it’s quite popular among the tech worker set in particular. As you can see here,” she pointed with a fingernail dressed in red, “they’ve already finished upgrades on the utilities, significantly improved transportation access, and overhauled the local police force to address public safety concerns.”  

She reached across the table to page further through the packet, brashly encroaching upon his territory with a confidence she wouldn’t have guessed herself to possess even half an hour ago; the thrill of being one step ahead of him, the singular experience of having information that he did not, overruling her better sense. “This building is the last barrier standing in the way of a triumph of urban renewal. They already sold it at auction once only to have the investor skip town under the cloud of a money laundering investigation. They’re practically begging for someone to take it at this point. The initial investment would be substantial, but well worth it.” She turned another page over, noticing that his attention was flitting back and forth from her fingers to her mouth.

She didn’t let her growing sense of having gained the upper hand show. “In addition to offering it up for pennies on the dollar, they’re also throwing in very generous tax breaks to incentivize remodeling. Furthermore, the political hack behind all this business managed to get it declared a heritage site of the city, so it’s eligible for funding from grants recently put in place for preservation projects. All of which would go a long way to offset your upfront costs. Add to that the expected value you’d get back from leasing out the extra space, and you’d stand to make quite a profit. This is a solid investment. The only requirement is a promise to keep as much of the facade intact as possible.” She retreated to her side of the table before his ringed fingers could touch hers over the document as he reached for it. 

He examined the papers with much more care than he had earlier before sitting back and assessing her, green-gray eyes gleaming. “I’m impressed, sweetling.”

She bristled at the backhanded compliment. “I’m good at my job.”

“Oh, I had no doubt of that.” There was a growing heat in his gaze that far exceeded any normal reaction to real estate talk, no matter how lucrative the prospects. “Though when I got your message, I admit I was hoping for it to pertain to matters of a more personal nature.” Her hackles raised but she met the challenge without balking. He licked his lips, his expression shifting into a leer and voice dropping to a rumble. “Tell me sweetling, how long has your  _ dear fiance _ been leaving you unsatisfied?”

_ There it is.  _ She should’ve known he wouldn’t let the incident in her office slide. She was prevented from replying by the arrival of their food. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” she retorted when they were alone again, glaring back at him. 

His grin turned obscene as he cut a portion of nearly raw steak and ate it with indecent relish before he continued. “Your...fulfillment has long been an interest of mine, as I’m sure you remember. I know with me you wouldn’t ever have needed to resort to seeking it alone. Not for very long at least. I still have proof of that, in case you’ve forgotten.” He sliced another piece and consumed it without taking his eyes off of her. 

_ Shit.  _ She knew exactly what he was referring to but never imagined he would’ve kept it, as it was at least as incriminating for him to possess--a felony, even--as it was for her to have it made public. She felt like slapping her sixteen-year-old self for her foolhardiness and lack of foresight. 

Her friends had strong-armed her into attending a party on an evening when her parents were out of town with her younger brothers and Arya away at a sleepover. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, thinking they were doing her a favor forcing her to socialize after her well-publicized breakup a few weeks prior. She could hardly have told them she’d already found a very effective method of getting over the drunken cad, and would much have preferred spending the night indulging in him to hanging around her inebriated peers. Indeed, it had been as tiresome as she feared. She wandered the abode aimlessly, increasingly more bored as everyone around her got drunker and less coherent. She’d been texting Petyr off and on all night, and finally, in a mad impulse, snuck away to one of the unoccupied rooms by herself, locking the door behind her. 

He may have goaded her on, but the choice to send him the pictures was entirely her own. The first few were relatively innocuous--smiling in a self-conscious play at seduction, a shot of her cleavage, the strappy heels she’d been peer-pressured into purchasing as ‘retail therapy’--but  when she’d flashed the red lace of the panties hiding underneath her skirt, he’d called her on a video app she wasn’t aware he knew about and proceeded to offer pornographic instruction and commentary as she frigged herself to oblivion with his express approval. After she recovered, he'd demanded to know exactly where she was, hell-bent on continuing what they’d started in person. He had to have broken several speed limits on his way, as he arrived with shocking swiftness. She slipped away from the raucous gathering unnoticed to meet him in the quiet cul-de-sac he’d parked in a few blocks away. She'd only just found his car when she was seized from behind, Petyr practically mauling her as he dragged her into the back seat. Indeed, he nearly ripped her panties off in his zeal. 

She remembered not caring about the seat belt buckle digging into her back or the awkward bend of her torso wedged against the door as he hoisted her legs over his shoulders, the discomfort buried under the sublime heat of his mouth. After licking her soaked cunny to yet another blissful peak, he'd fucked her in the back seat of his expensive sedan just down the street from her best friend’s parents’ house, and it was glorious. The trip home was almost as enjoyable, as it was spent with his hand firmly ensconced between her legs. She might’ve felt self-conscious about the resulting stains on the leather seat if his own disregard for it hadn’t been so readily apparent. She’d gone down on him when they got stuck at a red light vying for the world record in most pointlessly long signal cycle length, and she hadn’t been able to decide which was the most depraved aspect of it--tasting herself on his cock, the utterly filthy words of praise and encouragement spilling from his mouth as he fisted her hair, or the knowledge that at any moment someone might see them, even as empty as the streets were at three in the morning. When they finally got home, he took full advantage of their free run of the place, and had seemed determined to fill the empty house with her cries of ecstasy. When they’d had dinner with her parents the next evening at the table they’d defiled, she wasn’t able to look at him without blushing. If she were entirely honest with herself, the part she had liked most was the rare opportunity to fall asleep beside him in his bed, and wake up the same way in the morning. 

She hoped to god he wouldn’t actually dare use the compromising photos (and video, if she was exceptionally unlucky) against her, reasoning it was a weapon that would cut him just as easily if unsheathed. She shook herself free of the reverie, very aware of Petyr’s unrelenting scrutiny as he’d continued to consume his plate of food. Her own remained untouched, her appetite having abandoned her. She hoped the puffed-up waiter would take offense. 

“Do you want to see the property or not?” she asked in an effort to regain control of the situation. 

His eyes glinted. “Certainly. I’m parked right across the street--”

She cut him off, “I’d prefer to drive separately, thanks.” Getting into a car alone with him would be the opposite of a good idea. He paid their check, easily waving off her attempts to contribute to it, and they departed. Sansa used the twenty odd minutes of travel time to regroup, finding a radio station playing unobtrusive music that let her relax into its banality. 

After they’d parked and reconvened in front of the old building, she noticed his attention drawn to one of the businesses facing the prospective asset. He eyed it with scorn, sneering, “You didn’t mention it was across the street from a vegan pet food bakery.”

“I thought it was implied when I told you yuppies had taken over the neighborhood,” she fired back, which only made him smile. She used the combination given to her by the city properties office to gain entrance, and they ventured inside. Shockingly, as they toured the building, Petyr managed to keep it relatively professional for the time being, asking her pertinent questions about the layout and features. He seemed genuinely impressed with the unique architecture hiding under the decay and the potential it offered. As they neared the end of the excursion, however, they came upon a section of hallway that had borne the passage of time less well than the rest of the building, and had a great deal more trouble navigating it. One particular section proved too much a challenge for her heels, and she lost her footing, lurching suddenly  into Petyr, who caught her as if he'd been anticipating it--planning it, even--and drew her to himself in a smooth motion. She hadn't been this close to him in eight years, not really--held securely in his arms, subject to the familiar scent and slender but solid form which brought back a host of memories and feelings without her leave. One of his hands came up to cradle her face, the other sliding around her to flatten his palm against her back. He stared at her for a few moments, but she froze, unable to take action either toward or away from him. 

Petyr took advantage of her indecision  _ because of course he would, that’s what he always did,  _ capturing her lips with his, pressing her up against the nearest wall, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth. She’d forgotten just how good he tasted, mint combined with a more rounded spice, his tongue twining with hers, mouth devouring her as if he never wanted any other form of sustenance. The hard edge of his erection dug into her hip and his hands began to wander as his attentions grew more ardent, breaking the kiss only to nip and suckle his way down her neck. His hand crept up her skirt, and it wasn’t until she felt fingers trace the edges of her panties and venture beneath them that she managed to push him away. 

She refused to examine too closely why she’d chosen a skirt over something less accessible, or her decision to wear knickers that were several grades above what she normally employed for an average work day. Shaking her head to clear it, she glared at him and spat, “What do you want?”

“I should’ve thought I’d made that obvious,” he stepped toward her again, lust writ clear across his features. 

“No.” She shook her head vehemently, needing some kind of explanation even as she knew he was unlikely to give her a clear answer. “What are you getting out of--all of this?” she stumbled a bit over the words but remained adamant.

His mouth twisted sardonically, matching his mocking tone. “Aside from lucrative financial opportunities and scintillating discussions about concrete grade ratios with your fiance?” 

“Fuck you!” she growled, intent on pushing past him to leave, searching for less treacherous ground.  _ If he wasn’t going to do anything more than joke about this-- _

"Sansa--" He stopped her from storming by with an arm blocking her path, but the force of him demanding her attention was almost a greater barrier to her exit. “Would you believe me if I told you I've waited years to see you again and am willing to do anything for another chance?”

Something stuttered in her chest at the possibility that he might feel even an inkling of what she had for him, but she was very hesitant to trust the fire in the eyes holding hers captive. She’d been burned by it before, after all. Self-preservation crushed the faint stirrings of hope under its heel, and she injected as much disdain into her reply as she could muster. “I'm disappointed, Petyr. Your lies used to be much more plausible.”

An expression akin to regret flashed over his face for a brief moment. He ran a hand through precisely styled graying hair, and his mien softened to something more ambiguous. “And you used to be much more willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, sweetling.”

She wasn’t fooled by the beseeching look he gave her. “It took much longer than it should've, but I learned better. I grew up.” She brushed past him, and fortunately this time he let her. “Let me know if you decide to purchase the property, and I’ll start drawing up the paperwork. Good day, Mr. Baelish.” She managed to toss off the formality as if he hadn’t just had his tongue down her throat and been two seconds away from fingering her in an abandoned building. 

Just as she thought she might have escaped, his voice chased her down the hallway. “I’m glad you’ve finally accepted my offer by the way. Cutting it a bit fine, weren’t you, sweetling?”

Her feet dragged like they were stuck in the uneven cement beneath her. She didn’t want to turn around, not at all, but she would have to give him the satisfaction of it to know what he was referring to. Reluctantly, she spun to face him, demanding, “What are you talking about?”

He smirked, having reacquired the smug air that made her want to hate him. “Hosting your wedding, of course. I received the signed contract from your fiance this morning. Did he not tell you?”

_ That cocksucking motherfucker.  _ Harry was a dead man. She was unable to deny Petyr the reaction of pure fury he had clearly been hoping for, judging by the widening of his grin. She whirled back around to flee the building and the merciless allure of the man inside it. He called out to her once more as she walked away. She didn’t turn around but she could picture the mixture of hunger and self-satisfaction on his face perfectly as he delivered a parting shot. “See you soon, sweetling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to GreedisGreen and WriterChick for all the helpful feedback. I hope you guys are having as much fun reading this as we are writing it!


	7. Goodbye Good Guy

She had broken land speed records to get home to her backstabbing fiance.  Letdown was too weak of a word to express what she felt when she discovered that he was not yet there.  That was okay, though, because there was was a bottle of Absolut waiting for her in the freezer.  Anger alone had stolen her inhibitions long before the alcohol ever could, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t still be helpful.

Sansa pulled a shot glass out of the cupboard and poured herself a drink from the frosty bottle.  Harry had always loved it when she drank. It made her more agreeable to his sloppy advances.  It was no coincidence that around the start of their relationship, Sansa decided to curb her drinking, only doing so on rare occasions.  She smiled thinking of just how much he would love to see her drinking now, plotting his demise.  

The hulking idiot who trapped her into an engagement that was a chore on a good day and a burden on most, had no idea what hell he wrought.  Petyr had seen her on a handful of occasions, the amount of time spent in total was mere hours if one were calculating generously, yet even he knew.  He could see what no one else around her could or would.  And fuck him for it.  Sansa thought of how he licked his lips as he whispered naughty nothings in her ear and she swallowed back her shot, coughing only slightly at its caustic nature. 

Her throat burned as it trailed down her insides, and before it hit her belly, she had poured herself another.  It sat in front of her, taunting her, telling her to drink it.  To hell with what Harry would think, that’s obviously how he felt about her.  He had forced her into accepting his proposal, but she decided to continue with things, because she had believed him to be “the good guy.”  She had told herself time and time again that he was not exciting, but he was supposed to be honest.  

Harry was everything that Petyr was not.  Recovering from the older man’s affections, even years later, made her consider what life would be like on the side of good rather than _ sin _ .  What would sex be like if it didn’t carry a sense of shame with it?  She discovered awfully quick.  Dull.  Forced.  Mechanical.  Sansa swallowed down the second shot as she chuckled ruefully at how awful her sex life was now.  

She poured herself another, thinking it best practice to always have one prepared whether or not she was ready for it, when she heard the first indication that Harry was home.  The loud engine of his work truck powered down as he put it in park.  She gulped the drink down, thinking that three shots in an hour may be enough liquid courage. 

The front door opened and she listened to him drop his tool belt on the floor, and hang his plastic hard hat on the hook, scuffing it against the wall.  Each grunt and groan of him settling in after a long day of work offended her.  Why was he so loud and slovenly?  She thought of the restaurant Petyr had taken her to and the way he carried himself.  He had class, something Harry lacked, and also something Sansa was tired of pretending she didn’t require of a partner.  

His boots shuffled across the floor of the hall and she cringed at the sound.  He was too lazy to actually pick up his feet, his walk as clumsy as his touch. Harry’s voice sounded exhausted as he called out, “Hey, Babe.  I’m home.”  

She stiffened at his term of endearment, remembering how Petyr mockingly mouthed it to her back at the wedding venue.  Harry’s voice returned to a normal volume when he came into the kitchen and spotted her sitting on the bar stool at the counter, “There you are.”  

Sansa didn’t turn to acknowledge him, only read directly from the dictionary app on her phone, “Babe: a baby or child.  Or an innocent or inexperienced person.   _ Not _ a full grown woman.”  

Harry laughed awkwardly behind her, “What’s going on?”  

She swiveled around to face him, holding her phone up as she answered, “Nothing.  I’m just pointing out yet another area in which you’re an idiot.”  

“Whoa!”  His face held the shock of her sudden verbal attack as he asked, “Where is this coming from?”  

She crossed her arms as she continued, “Petyr Baelish, Harry.”  Her words were innocent enough, but the venom that laced them, would warn any man to steer clear.  Harry, unfortunately, was not observant enough to catch clues, however obvious.

“What did he tell you?”  His features were primitive, holding only testosterone soaked anger across his face.  There was a slight movement as she could tell he was running through all the things he’d confided in his new bestie, to determine which subject was incriminating him now.   

“Nothing.  It’s what I told you about him.  And I told you that I didn’t want to use Petyr.”  He had used her plenty, and she would gnaw off her own arm to avoid owing him anything.  Her breathing deepened as she glared at Harry, “And you made arrangements anyway.”

Harry was either too simple-minded to understand or he thought he was man enough to handle her ire.  Regardless, he did not retreat, instead explaining, “Now let’s not be short-sighted here, Sansa.  It was a great offer, one we won’t get again.  I know you think that money grows on trees or something, but it doesn’t and I was just trying to help make your dreams come true.”  

“Dreams?”  She scoffed.  The patronizing way he explained his own inability to provide for her or respect her wishes just disgusted her further.  “More like nightmares.”  

He shook his head, confused, “What are you talking about?”  

She stilled for a moment, blinking back at him, realizing that she had just taken the first step to admitting out loud that she would rather be anyone else in the world than his wife.  She could gloss over it, count on his denial and ignorance to sweep it under the rug.  Or she could take the opportunity to own her feelings, entirely, and loudly.  Her voice raised as she accused him, “You proposed to me in front of an audience so I couldn’t refuse, because you knew from day one that I wasn’t into you.”  

He stood speechless.  She didn’t know what he was truly surprised over: that she didn’t want him, the hot studmuffin with rippling muscles that all the girls fawned over, or that she had finally gotten the tenacity to say it.  His eyes glanced over to the bottle of vodka next to her and he shook his head knowingly.  Condescendingly.  “You’re drunk.  You’re not yourself.” 

The image of Petyr’s eyes as he told her that perhaps people don’t change burned in her brain as well as the feel of his fingers just beneath the edges of her panties.  In those moments, stuck on the sticky silk of his web, she was exactly herself.  Harry had not known this woman, so his reaction was not surprising, however arrogant.  This was not the life she wanted, sharing a bed with someone who had never truly even met her, spending her time fantasizing about stolen moments with a man who got her so completely, so immediately.  Harry wouldn’t understand subtly so she struck him with harsh words, “I know what I want, and it isn’t you.  How could I ever want someone so pathetic they had to use  _ peer pressure _ to assure an engagement?”  

His face tightened and his lips pursed, barely containing a string of obscenities she dared him to utter.  The knuckles on his bawled up fists were turning white at his sides, and she wondered if he could even see her with how fiercely he squinted his eyes.  He may not have understood everything she was telling him, but he did at least comprehend that he was being insulted.  When he didn’t say anything, she egged him on, “Say it.  Say whatever awful thing you’re thinking right now.  You’re spineless if you don’t.”  

He took a slow controlled breath and cracked his knuckles, loosening them before he said, “There are some things people don’t say because it’s just the decent thing to do.  You’ve been drinking.  I’m going to give you some time to cool off.”  

Sansa barely heard him, suddenly lost in a memory of Petyr pressing a fully clothed erection against her ass in her parents kitchen under the pretense of reaching for something.  She smirked and whispered to him,  _ Mr.Baelish, that’s indecent _ .  His breath was hot on her neck as he replied,  _ It’s the indecencies in life that make it worth living.   _

Yes, it was.  She knew that now, staring back at Harry, disappointment surging through her veins as if an inseparable component in her blood.  She offered a sick laugh as her words abraded him again, “I can’t tell if you’re too stupid to understand that I don’t want you.  Or if you’re just that desperate, clinging to someone who couldn’t care less if you came home or not.”  

Harry blinked back, slowly comprehending.  Finally.  He breathed, “What’s gotten into you?” 

Petyr baelish got into her, maybe not in the flesh, try as he might, but he had stirred something that lay dormant for a long time.  This fight was larger than just Harry and Sansa, Petyr was apart of it as well, with or without his physical presence.  She heard Harry beg her, “Don’t do this Sansa.  You’re a good girl.  You wouldn’t do this.  Not now, with the wedding so close.”

Sansa inhaled through her nostrils, calming the wave of rage that hit her.  She slowly turned away from him and poured herself another drink.  She held the shot glass up, and before downing it, she added, “Is that why you asked me to marry you?  Because you think I’m a good girl?  Oh,  _ Babe _ , you never knew me.  Get out.”  

When he didn’t leave immediately, shifting from one foot to the other in place as he considered his next retort, Sansa lifted her phone for him to see.  “If you don’t leave of your own accord, I’ll call someone to remove you.”  

“Are you fucking crazy?!”  His jaw dropped as he watched her punch numbers into her phone.  “Fine!  The hell with this bullshit, I’m out!”  He grabbed his keys, grumbling something unintelligible.  She only understood the word,  _ headcase _ , and found herself chuckling at his simple understanding of what transpired.

It wasn’t long after he left before Sansa’s phone vibrated on the counter and she knew it would be Jeyne.  Harry always ran to her for support, trying to use their friendship to help Sansa see his side of things.  A true friend wouldn’t be in the other guy’s corner.  And any man who required such assistance to keep his fiance interested, should take that as a hint.  The message read,  _ What are you doing?!  Harry thinks the wedding might be off.  He’s heartbroken! _

Thinks.  He “thinks” the wedding might be off.  The depths of his stupidity only dug deeper.  She didn’t know how much clearer she could have been.  It had been building for some time, and she knew she should have done it a lot sooner.  But it was finally done.  Was he at Jeyne’s right now?  It wouldn’t surprise Sansa in the slightest, if he was.  Jeyne was probably comforting him on her couch, offering him a drink and hugging him whenever the lumbering idiot teared up.  Good.  Let her.  Sansa poured a shot and smirked as she typed back,  _ He’s all yours.  Please fuck him, so he’ll stop bothering me to. _

Leaving her phone on the counter, ignoring the many notifications of responses, Sansa stood and suddenly felt the lack of gravity in the room.  She didn’t think she was especially drunk because she could still see straight and make sense of the words on her phone when she was texting.  However, the looseness to her limbs told her that if she were not as angry as she was, she could very well be enjoying a warm and happy glow.  And why shouldn’t she be happy?  She was finally rid of the sweaty dirt-encrusted mammoth that touched her in all the wrong ways.  She should be ecstatic right now.  She picked up her phone after another vibration and read,  _ Harry’s a good man, Sansa. _

Maybe she didn’t want a “good man,” maybe she never had.  What had a good man gotten her?  Imposition.  Obligation.  Expectation.  She shook her head no, that was not what she wanted in the slightest.  Petyr’s smug smile popped in her head as if on cue and she thought of all the times he was just the opposite of what Harry-the-Good-Guy was for her.  There was no obligation or expectation with Petyr, and letting him lick her to oblivion was hardly an imposition.  

She clicked out of Jeyne’s message and hit the button for a new one.  She pulled Petyr’s card off of the fridge, the one she’d been eyeing and cursing ever since Harry rescued it from the garbage, and typed in his number.  He said he wanted another chance.  Another chance at what?  Did it matter?  She didn’t need a fiance right now, or a committed relationship.  She needed what Petyr gave her every time they were together--acceptance.  He offered a chance to be herself, the good and the bad, without judgement.  

Impulsivity rang through her as she typed in her address, then hit  _ send _ quickly before she could change her mind.  It said that he read it instantly, though didn’t respond.  She reasoned that he probably didn’t know if she was just giving him another location to check out, so she added,  _ You wanted another chance.  Come now, before I change my mind. _

The phone vibrated a response, but she refused to look at it, setting it face down on the counter, not knowing whether it was from Petyr or another appeal from Jeyne.  She allowed herself to walk weightlessly to the front door, making sure it was unlocked for him.  Sansa unzipped her skirt, leaving it on the floor, and then unbuttoned her blouse on her way back to the kitchen, dropping it behind her as she went.  She unrolled her pantyhose and peeled them off before reaching behind to unhook her bra, and let her hair out.  Standing in just her slip and panties, she poured herself another shot and decided that if she was going to face Petyr Baelish, she was going to be goddamned comfortable doing so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to greedisgreen and expected_aberrance for all the writing fun! This collab has been blast to work on.


	8. A Taste So Sweet

The acrid sting of whiskey as it coated his throat was a welcome comfort as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to focus on the quarterly financials before him. Normally, Petyr preferred his alcohol smoother; perhaps Arbor Gold or a Dornish red, but not tonight. Tonight, his thoughts were scattered, distracted by the sweetness of a certain redhead’s lips. He had hoped that the roughness of the liquor could mask it, if not wipe it away entirely, but so far he’d no such luck. The taste of Sansa Stark had been ever pervasive since the first time he indulged in her, and it was unlikely to ever leave him completely, try as he might.

Before long, the daylight gave way to dusk; the blues, pinks, and purples of the setting sun scoring their way across the cloudy sky. Petyr pushed away from his desk, resigned to the fact that no credible work would be accomplished tonight. He crossed the room to refill his glass for a second time, content to drown in alcohol until he inevitably gave into the urge to drop trou and jerk one out to the vision of Sansa in his head; naked, red hair splayed against the bright white of his pillows, beckoning him with those tempestuous eyes. His mobile vibrated against the desk. Abandoning the mini bar, he unlocked the screen to see a text from Sansa: an address. A curt reply was at the tip of his fingers, but before he could type, another text came through. A stuttering breath escaped him as he read the message. It was an invitation. 

Petyr Baelish was not a man prone to impatience, but every muscle and instinct in his body screamed to hurry. Even as his pulse thundered in his ears, he kept his pace casual, traversing the short expanse of hallway to his bedroom. His disheveled suit was stripped off, and he entered the bathroom. It wouldn’t do to go to Sansa reeking of desperation and whiskey. He washed his face and brushed his teeth. Giving a quick swipe of his tongue over the gleaming white, he chomped at his image in the mirror-- _clack, clack_. The day’s stubble he would keep. The idea of leaving red welts over Sansa’s porcelain skin, marking her, had a decided appeal. His hair was smoothed down to something resembling order, and the clock on the nightstand flashed the time. Twenty minutes had passed since her text. His movements unconsciously picked up speed as he dressed himself. His tie barely secured around his neck before he ran out the front door. 

Petyr should feel guilty about seducing his (former) best friend’s daughter (again), but he was never one to allow such plebian emotion to plague his conscience. What was guilt in the face of such glorious temptation? Sansa was a succulent morsel, waiting to be plucked, savored, enjoyed, and god forgive him, but he couldn’t resist her charms. Tasting her on his lips was the single greatest joy he’d experienced in almost twenty years, and fuck anyone who tried to taint that. 

Digits tapped anxiously on the gear shift as he raced through traffic, running a red light here and there where he deemed it safe to do so. Petyr could only hope that he hadn’t made Sansa wait too long. That she was still ripe for the debauchery he had in mind. 

The navigation system announced the final turn, and Petyr pulled up to the address he was given. The house was a dump. The grass half-dead, and the trim in desperate need of fresh paint. He tsked at the unkempt exterior as he exited his vehicle.

Only Sansa’s little sedan sat in the driveway, and the pitted cement walkway cracked and broke beneath Petyr’s shoes as he approached the porch. The door was given a gentle rap, and he struggled not to bounce on his heels. He was anxious and eager to taste the forbidden fruit he’d been denied for so long. When no answer came, he chanced a look through the open blinds of the window, and saw an enticing trail of clothes form a path through the living room. That was invitation enough for him to grip the knob and give it a careful turn. It wasn’t locked. 

The hinges creaked as he stepped inside, and the house was quiet, save for the clink of glass in another room. He gently closed the entrance behind him, clicking the lock into place, before gliding on tentative soles into the house, following the path that Sansa had laid for him.

The light, cast through the kitchen door, illuminated his approach, and he heard Sansa’s sultry voice call out, “It took you long enough.”

God himself could strike him dead at this moment and he would die a happy man. Sansa, his voluptuous goddess, was seated on the counter in nothing but a wispy, cream colored slip. It was rucked up to mid thigh as she reclined on her palms, long legs dangling, teeth worrying at her bottom lip enticingly. Her blue eyes were fever bright, and a flush radiated over her skin. He wanted to rip that sliver of cloth from her body, see just how far that tantalizing pink stretched, but the bottle of vodka sitting next her gave him pause. She was inebriated, he was certain, but just how far gone was she?

Petyr leaned against the door jam. “I see you started the party without me,” he said, nonchalantly tucking his hands into his pockets. “What are we celebrating, my sweet?”

Her head whipped copper flames to one side as she raked over him licentiously. His appearance must have met with her approval because she flashed him a coy smile. “Come closer, and I’ll tell you,” she said with a crook of her finger.

Petyr entered the room slowly, taking measured steps forward until he was just outside her arm’s reach. He wanted nothing more than to skim his hands over her milky thighs, but instead he fisted them in their hiding place, giving her a smoldering grin.

She hummed, and kicked out her leg, “Closer,” she said as the long, pale appendage anchored around his waist and pulled him invitingly between her thighs. She snaked her arms about his neck. “Much better.”

Petyr wanted to kiss her, lick the liquor from her lips, but there was something to be said for delayed gratification. Drawing out every last ounce of lust until each nerve was raw, and every touch an exquisite agony. 

She smoothed her index over the curve of his ear. “I kicked Harry out.”

Petyr’s heart soared. “And how did the poor oaf take that news?” he said bracing his hands on either side of her, flexing his fingers against the counter.

“Not well,” Sansa laughed. It was full and throaty and Petyr wanted to drown in it. “I’m afraid we won’t be utilizing your facilities.”

A lascivious leer spread across his features. “How unfortunate. There’s a hefty cancellation fee. It’s lucky your name wasn’t on the contract.” He gave a quick peck to the corner of her mouth.

“You only just got the contract this morning.” Her nails raked over his ribs under his jacket, and he felt his cock stiffen.

He rested his forehead against her, grazing her nose with his own. “True, but you should remember how very ruthless I am in that regard.” His breath brushed hot over her lips. “Unless the venue receives at least six months notice of cancellation, the party which signed off on the contract--in this case, dear Harry--is responsible for the full cost of operations regardless. He’ll owe me something to the tune of ten grand.”

Sansa threw back her head, howling uproariously in disbelief. “But it was a gift!”

“A gift that is no longer being utilized as you so splendidly put,” he rasped into her ear. Placing a kiss on the soft skin beneath, “You should know by now that nothing is free. Harry was already paying for that venue in construction services, whether he realized it or not.” His hands travelled unconsciously to the tops of her thighs, kneading the silky flesh, desperately seeking more contact. “I always get paid, sweetling, one way,” he kissed her nose, “or the other.”

“You are a wicked man, Petyr Baelish.” There was no disapproval in her tone. She jumped off the counter, arched herself into him, breasts close enough to bury his face in. “Do you have any idea just how badly I want you right now?” Taking one of his hands in her own, she guided it down between her legs to feel the warmth pooling at her center. “I’m so wet for you,” she whispered against his jaw.

His breath faltered as he felt the divine vitae that had soaked through her knickers. “I can tell.” He allowed himself the pleasure of running his fingertips over the flimsy cloth that covered her sex, teasing that little bundle of nerves ever so slightly before retreating. “But I can also tell you’ve had more than your fair amount to drink tonight.”

He sang a sibilant hiss as her fingers tugged back sharply on the hair at his nape. Sansa studied his face, affronted by his refusal. “You’re kidding me right?”

His hand ran up her arm to disengage her clenched fingers from his scalp. He placed a gentle kiss to the pulse of her wrist before settling it on his chest. “Make no mistake, Sansa. I want nothing more than to rip those skimpy, little undies off and fuck you into oblivion.” He nudged closer so she could feel the truth in his statement. “But if I do that now, in your state, you’d regret it.” He reluctantly released his hold on her to step back.

Sansa refused to allow their contact to be broken, following in his wake. She hummed, and placing her hands on his hips, guided him against the place where she had just sat. It was still warm. “Then don’t touch me.”

The low counter dug into Petyr’s back where she forced him to stand; a complement of pain to match the pulsing ache in his swollen member. He quirked his brow, questioning her sudden acceptance.

“Let me,” she dragged her hands up his torso, “touch you,” and gave him a little nip to his chin.

Petyr swallowed hard. The mischievous glint in her eye should have told him she was up to something. His cock was ready to burst the seam of his pants. The tortuous route of delayed gratification suddenly an unappealing prospect when the object of his every deviant fantasy was so indelibly pressed against him. Still, he tried to maintain a semblance of discipline. “That’s probably not wise.”

Sansa’s head snapped up from the crook of his neck, blue eyes ablaze. “Screw wise. Everyone, my whole life, has been telling me what’s good for me. Where I should go to college, who my friends should be, what type of man I should marry. Don’t you start, too. I need you, Petyr.” She punctuated her confession by launching her thigh between his legs, grazing over his straining erection.

That seductive plea into his ear crumbled the last of his resolve, and a moan breached the silence. Petyr couldn't say with certainty from where it originated. 

Delicate licks spread down the stubbled path of his throat, igniting his blood. In the past, their coupling was always rushed, the threat of discovery egging them on to quick release. Sansa wasn't rushing now. Every motion was painstakingly planned to incite Petyr to action. The cool stroke of air that teased after each kiss sending a delightful shiver through him.

Petyr panted under her attentions, heart thudding, threatening to break free of his chest. Grey-green chanced a glance to her lips. They were wet, swollen, bright crimson against ivory. The blinding urge to kiss her overwhelmed. Auburn coiled between his fingers as mouths met. Beneath the astringent aftertaste of vodka was honey, and lemon, and ginger; bright shocks of flavor on his tongue. He wanted more. The lash of her tongue against his own a balm, an assurance that this was real. He stepped forward to deepen the kiss, to draw out the little whimpers and moans that set his blood to boil, but he was halted. Pushed back to feel the bite of the cabinet once more. A harsh groan left him at the rejection. 

Sansa sucked in a great breath, having had the air stolen by his insistent attentions. Guiding his hands away, Sansa breathlessly chided, “Nuh-uh-uh. No touching remember?”

An annoyed grumble escaped his throat, but he complied. Antsy palms were planted on the counter at her command, fingers wrapped around the edge, digging into the underside as he watched. The gaze of those azure orbs that had haunted his dreams never broke from him as her digits worked. He could feel the belt loosen, hear the rattle of the metal after it was freed. And then she was on her knees. Sansa looked up at him with such brazen desire, scorching trails over his slender thighs with her palms. With the pop of a button and the zip of his fly, she freed him from the restrictive confines of his pants. Now, all that stood between her pliant lips and his ravenous cock was the bit of black material that covered him. He was panting with anticipation. 

Her fingers travelled up, and toyed with the waist of his boxers, teasing over the taut plane of his abdomen. The sensation sent little sparks of electricity through him, condensing at the engorged appendage between his legs. He could feel the sticky, white, pre-cum already forming at its tip. His lungs felt ready to burst. The breath he’d been inadvertently holding came stammering out in the form her name.

That seemed to be exactly what Sansa was waiting for. He was unravelling before her. She gave him a lewd grin. His boxers and pants were summarily pulled down to access him. He was better than she remembered. Not as long as Harry, but thicker, with a slight arch over his length. All the better to hit just the right spots. She let out a sharp exhale of heated breath over his skin, and watched as goosebumps lit up his thighs. Leaning forward, she kissed the base of his cock, a throaty hum of approval leaving her, sending a tremor of arousal through his limbs. One of her hands came up to firmly grip him. The feeling of her soft hand running along his length set his heart to race, and he let out a hearty moan. 

Petyr recalled the last time she did this, in the cramped quarters of the kitchen pantry at the Stark home. They had been testing each other all day, as the whole family swam, trying to make the other person break first. He was certain he was a doomed man, watching Sansa parade around in nothing but wet spandex, her nipples peaked from the light summer breeze. He stepped inside under the guise of grabbing drinks to hide his growing erection. When Sansa followed and pulled him into the closet, her lips tasted of victory. Her sheer earnestness was enough to get him off quickly then.

That was the beginning of the end. Cat was waiting for them when they exited. Petyr had always known the game they were playing was risky, but he was drunk off Sansa's intoxicating enthusiasm. 

Sansa, in her youthful innocence, tried to play off a lie, and judging by the smile she flashed him as she stepped back outside, thought she got away with it. Petyr wasn't so confident. He had studied Cat’s features for the better part of thirty years, and he knew that she knew. 

_”I want you out of my house.”_ The contempt in her voice brooked no argument. 

He held his hand out, pleading, _“Cat, I-”_

 _“No!”_ Cat interjected. _“Keep that silver tongue to yourself unless you want it cut out. You stay away from my daughter.”_ Cat made her way towards the exit, and stopped before opening the door. Unwilling to look at him, she stared through the glass pane. _“I want you gone by morning. Do you understand?”_

In the end, it was Cat that didn't understand. Not Sansa, not himself. Not the clutches of passion or possession or obsession. 

He was violently jerked from his reverie as Sansa licked him, base to head. Petyr threw back his head, and cursed. This woman was going to be his undoing. The straining red tip of his cock pressed against fervid lips as she laid a kiss there, then he felt her mouth sink onto him. She was so warm. So wet. Had any other woman felt so perfectly around him? Not once in his forty-eight years. The little dips and swirls of her tongue around him were driving him insane. He watched as inch by inch his cock disappeared between sumptuous lips. It was maddening, and he fought the urge to grip at those auburn strands and guide her until his completion. His nostrils flared and the muscles of his arms clenched in his struggle to remain restrained. 

If Sansa noticed, she didn’t comment. Only watched him from below as she took him in, his cock sliding deeper and deeper with each stroke of her mouth, drinking of that spicy musk that was all Petyr. Just before she swallowed him to the hilt, she let him slip from her hold with an audible pop. Cool air hit the tip, a painful contrast to the warmth that had just expelled it. It wasn’t exposed for long, as skilled hands worked up and down the taut skin. Sansa was catching her breath, readying herself for more; occasionally licking his length, reminding him of just how much power she had over him right now.

Sansa looked back up to him, watched as the muscle in his jaw twitched with barely contained desire, and grinned knowing that he would break for her soon. Taking a deep breath, she licked her lips and guided him deep. Soon his cock was completely submerged, hitting at the back of her throat. 

“Fuck.” Petyr found himself simultaneously wanting to thank and kill whichever man was responsible for teaching her that particular trick. The only thing that could possibly feel better than Sansa Stark deep throating his cock, was being buried inside her tight little cunt.

Sansa was working Petyr over with a finesse he, unfortunately, had very little part in cultivating. When her hand moved down to cradle and massage his balls, he knew the end was near. He felt his groin clench as the pad of one of her fingers eased back over the sensitive bit of skin leading between his legs, cozying up to the entrance to his ass. Silently, he wondered, as she skirted the edge of depravity, how far beyond it she had explored herself, and found himself ecstatic to discover the answer.

He looked down again, and noticed that the hand not aiding her mouth was working between her legs. What a perfect, nasty little thing she was. And she was his. No amount of time or distance, no meddling family members or threats of death could change that. Sansa Stark was his. 

Her sweet musk clung heavily to the air. Petyr could taste it. It was like lemonade in summer, sweet and tart, more refreshing than water to a man dying of thirst. He licked his lips, anxious to taste her again.

The thought of Sansa’s glistening pink slit was enough to send him hurtling towards release. His knuckles were white as he held the countertop, trying to abide by the rules of her game. Her finger that had been teasing him, suddenly dipped inside and pressed just so, and he came with a fierce cry, hot and thick in her welcoming mouth. She laved him with her tongue until every drop was cleaned away, and he could see how hard she was working towards her own release. 

“Look at me,” he panted, only just able to hold himself up.

Big blue eyes, alight with hunger imparted her need to him better than any words. Without her asking, he dropped to his knees, and pulled her to him, ravaging her mouth as he laid her down. A part of him wished that he’d been less a gallant knight and fucked her the way he’d wanted to originally. Another part of him relished the idea of giving her this. Of making her come with just his mouth the way he did their first night together.

Petyr drifted down between her legs, biting a nipple playfully on the way, and spread her legs wide. Her fingers still worked beneath the soaked cotton that covered her sex. He ripped them from her in his frantic zeal. He was tired of not touching, not tasting. He needed her. Eight years, and his hunger for her never abated. He pulled her slick fingers away, replaced them with his own. As he sucked the juice from her digits, his thumb worked vigorously over her clit. 

Sansa was writhing, moaning beneath his careful ministrations. His mouth soon followed his fingers’ lead. His tongue trailing a path between her folds to tease that the little engorged nub. She was just as divine as he remembered, and he drank her down like ambrosia.

Sansa was panting, moaning. Her sobs of bliss forming a litany of barely intelligible words. Words like _fuck, yes, Petyr, pleasepleaseplease, don’t stop_. He could tell she was approaching her precipice, ready to fly away on the warm waves of euphoria. Two fingers pumped inside her, pressing firmly at that special little spongy tissue until he felt her whole body keen. His face was trapped between her thighs as she clenched and cried out. His fingers still working, still drawing out the last waves of orgasm, feeling as the warm sheath of her womanhood rippled around him.

Sansa was beautiful. She was always beautiful, but knowing that the glow she carried here and now was from him and him alone, made pride beat inside his chest. He could almost say he loved her, but love wasn't for people like them. People that took great bites out of the world only to spit them out and watch the chaos. 

He kissed his way back up her body when the last racking fits of rapture subsided. 

“You broke the rules,” she sighed as she ran her fingers idly through the grey at his temples.

“I did,” he said. “I suppose you’ll have to punish me,” he growled in her ear, giving it a playful nip.

She hummed with a self-satisfied grin. “I have just the thing. Stay with me. Here. Tonight.”

Petyr was leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses along her throat, savoring the salt on her skin, when he thought to ask, “What about Harry?”

She smoothed one hand over his shoulder, nails sifting through the hair on his neck. “I don’t care about Harry. I want you here when I wake up. I want you here,” she dragged her thumb over the moist curve of his mouth, “so I can show you just how much,” and trailed it over his cheek to cup his jaw, “I _don’t_ regret what happened tonight.” Sansa caught his mouth in a blistering kiss, ravenous and needy, their tongues entwining in a dance both new and familiar. 

Unable to say no, Petyr allowed his fiery, redhaired seductress to lead him towards the bedroom. If Harry happened upon them in flagrante delicto, then sobeit. It would not be the first time he chased after the wrong woman, only to bleed for the pleasure. For Sansa Stark, for a chance to lie once again between her thighs, he would gladly bleed gallons.


	9. Dark Roast

Petyr woke to a honey lemon scent filling his nostrils and the warmth of a soft body pressed against his. He’d been chasing this waking experience in dream and fantasy for nigh on eight years. When he'd first arrived at the Stark home, he'd told himself he wouldn't touch her. Her tempting little body might be sweet but not worth the legal consequences and/or physical harm that may come of it. He was certain that he could enjoy her clumsy stabs at flirtation, indulge in the idle fancy of buying the red lace he _knew_ would look indecently divine on her without compromising the self-control that had served him well all these years. He’d been wrong on all counts; all it had taken was a few tears on her part and a little alcohol on his for it to snap like the fragile, overstretched thread it really was.

And once he’d had a taste of her in that very first depraved kiss, there was no going back. He didn't make a habit of deflowering virgins--aside from Sansa, his type ran to more experienced women--but found the process of initiating her into the ways of sin and depravity utterly intoxicating. He relished being the first to taste her, to worship between her thighs and know the depths of her sublime heat, to swallow down the cries of pleasure she couldn’t control that threatened to expose them every stolen moment together.

The night he took her virginity remained prominent in his memory for the basic, primal claim on her it granted that no man after him could make. He’d almost come at the sight alone of her bent over her parents’ couch--the elegant curl of her spine, the exposed folds of her sex glistening beautifully with her nectar and his saliva--and again when he slid his painfully erect cock up and down her virgin slit, relishing her soft whimpers and whispered pleas and not giving in until she _begged_ for him. He’d brought her off twice with his fingers and tongue to minimize her discomfort, but when he’d finally began a slow, steady thrust into her--relishing the low whine his intrusion pulled from her lips--she was still so impossibly tight and hot he’d feared he might die there and then. When he’d filled her completely, sunk deep into the clutching heat that far exceeded his fantasies, he managed to give her a few breaths to adjust, though it took every ounce of willpower to hold himself back from immediately pounding her into the arm of the couch, nearly lost in the overwhelming sensation. It somehow got even better when he started to move, driving in and out as if he could never get deep enough, needing to grip her hips as an anchor. His eyes were fixed on her face, fascinated by the fluid expression in profile pressed against the couch, open-mouthed, dazed from the _newness_ of it, discomfort drawing her eyes shut and baring her teeth until he found the angle that made her writhe beneath him, pleasure reshaping her features beautifully. He lost awareness for anything but her, only barely cognizant of the need to stay silent with her family only a floor above them. Feeling her begin to tighten around him, he sped up to a nearly desperate pace until she broke, biting her lip to stifle her cries, and he followed just after, utterly consumed.

He knew no girl dreamed of her first time being a furtive, sordid fuck over a sofa, but Sansa had _loved_ it. The unorthodox beginning to their relationship--such as it was--set the tone for the course of the rest. He grew addicted to her eagerness in discovering each new perversion and trespassed boundary, obsessed with seeing how far he could push her. He recalled fondly the first time he’d pulled her on top and encouraged her to do as she liked with him, guiding the shy, coltish movements of her hips, coaxing her to figure out what felt good, reassuring her that whatever she did would be more than enjoyable enough for him. Watching her gain in confidence as she found a rhythm, rocking back and forth with increasing certainty and excitement, was as integral to his pleasure as the act itself.

The woman who’d ridden him to oblivion last night however, raked thin red lines down his chest with her fingers, ruthlessly tweaked and bitten his nipples--pushing the boundary between pain and pleasure with authority in a welcome turnabout of their earlier liaisons--had known exactly what she was doing. Finally being inside her sweet pussy again had been even better than he’d remembered. When she came, her body a tight coil suddenly released above and around him, he'd only been able to hold off spilling into her by sheer will bolstered by experience and his earlier release, but he was determined to keep the tally in his favor. As she slumped over his chest, he rolled them over and began an assault of his own, pounding into her, seeking to build on her orgasm without respite or mercy.

She’d taken everything he’d given and demanded more, gouging her sharp little claws into his back--a castigation he'd take any day--and mewling in bliss beneath him. He took advantage of the position to suck a nipple into his mouth, causing her to arch up into him, and brought a hand between them to rub circles around her engorged clit. It wasn't until he felt her pulse and clench around him once more that he surrendered, pouring himself into her with a shout.

He propped himself up on an elbow to better gaze upon her, passing a hand lightly over the curves of her torso and hip. He’d devoted the prior evening to reacquainting himself with every square inch of her body, marking it with teeth and tongue and the scrape of his beard to her vocal approval, cataloguing the changes he found with interest and not a bit of disappointment. She’d grown taller--of a height with him now, which he didn’t mind in the least--and her gorgeous breasts and lovely hips fit more fully into his hands. That he’d had both now--coy ingenue and bedeviling temptress--was an appeal all of its own. He suspected he could make her cum a million times and not tire of it, find release in her over and over without exhausting the hunger burning inside him for her, the fire in his blood that flared in her presence alone.

He very much wanted to resume where they had left off last night, slide his cock between the inviting cheeks of her ass until she awoke moaning for him, but sadly, his protesting bladder won over his heavy balls, and he was reluctantly forced to get up to relieve the former. There was enough light coming through the bedroom windows to see the features of the bathroom, banal save for the feminine touches he attributed to Sansa’s influence--fluffy towels and bathmat, a tasteful floral print on the wall, carved aromatic soaps by the sink. Curious, he took a quick survey of her toiletries, making note of what products Sansa seemed to prefer, comparing the scents in the bottles to what he’d tasted on her skin. He sneered at the interloping offensive, heavy-handed masculine accoutrements alongside them. If his luck held, they would not be present for long.

He padded back into the bedroom, cracking stiff joints and stretching sore muscles as he went. He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a lock of hair back from her face gently, but she did little more than turn her head further into the pillow. It was hardly a surprise; she had imbibed quite a bit more than he last night, from what he could tell, and would likely be regretting it when she awoke. He decided she might benefit from something stronger than water, and headed for her kitchen to determine what supplies might be available, retrieving the boxers he’d left carelessly on the floor in deference to the morning chill of the house en route.

Sadly, a cursory search of the cupboards revealed the blend selection on hand to be disappointing, as was the cheap and wholly inadequate machine passing itself off as a coffee pot. He measured out the grounds and set the thing to brew with a slight sneer. He would have to address the deficiency in the near future. If it suffered some sort of mishap when in his use, well, courtesy dictated he replace it for her, didn’t it? Come to think of it, the entire sorry-excuse-for-a-house would benefit from similar treatment; his sweetling clearly deserved better than this--

Ah, but he was getting ahead of himself. While she may have invited him back into her bed for the night, it didn't necessarily follow she intended to let him stay there. He may yet have a significant challenge ahead of him, but now that he had her in his grasp once more, he wasn't about to let go again. Last night had been a glorious first step, in either case. Before Cat had caught them and thrown him out of the house, he’d had no intentions of stopping their affair. The logistics would have been challenging, but after two years, she’d have been of age, and no one would have any say in what he did with her. Now, the statute of limitations for his transgressions were up; Cat could hiss and spit all she liked--she had nothing on him. The only real danger was the physical threat posed by her husband. Fortunately, the man had little brains and no imagination, and Petyr was fairly certain he would detect and foil any attacks from that quarter.

Likewise, her engagement had represented a mere technicality; Sansa was and would always be _his,_ regardless of the callow boy’s ersatz claim on her. Even if she had married the oaf it might have presented an inconvenience, perhaps, but it wouldn't have halted his pursuit. That the imbecile chose to shoot himself in the foot had been a welcome surprise.

As he waited for the no-doubt inferior coffee to finish percolating, he opened the refrigerator to see if he could salvage anything edible to replenish the energy they’d expended last night. Before he could give the contents more than a preliminary frown, however, the sound of a key turning a lock drew his attention. He shut the fridge, glancing back in the direction of the bedroom, but saw no movement from the girl he’d left asleep in bed. The door swung open with a creak, admitting heavy footsteps into the front hall. He had about twenty seconds before what he presumed was Sansa’s (ex?) fiance would see the kitchen light on and come to investigate.

 _Fuck._ It was far too late to make a dignified exit, and he wasn't about to flee the house nearly naked like an utter coward. He was grateful he’d decided on wearing at least a modicum of clothing. He wasn’t particularly modest when it came to nudity, but he found it complicated negotiations, and left vulnerable areas more open to attack. He took stock of his surroundings, searching for objects that could be pressed into service as weaponry as the idiot lumbered toward him. As the lummox rounded the corner he stopped short, eyes widening comically as he met Petyr’s own carefully neutral expression.

Assessing the dull features of the man in front of him, Petyr detected surprise and confusion but not the rage that should have been present. Perhaps he was even more slow of wit than he’d thought.  “Petyr! What are you doing here?” Harry exclaimed uncertainly, heavy brow furrowed, mouth slack and threatening drool.

“Making coffee,” he replied easily, as if they were exchanging small talk somewhere much more innocuous than a mutual paramour’s kitchen. “Do you want some?” Hardyng shook his head, still befuddled. Petyr retrieved a mug from where he’d seen them in the cabinet earlier, making sure his back wasn’t fully turned to his opponent, and poured the near-boiling liquid into it, prepared to use the latter defensively on the dullard at any moment, but oddly, the expected attack never materialized.

The boy couldn’t possibly be this dense, could he? There was literally no other credible explanation for Petyr to be standing there in his underwear other than having shagged her brains out, none at all. To add to that, Harry must've walked right by the trail of clothing Sansa had left him last night and not taken any notice. Furthermore, Baelish was fairly sure he still bore reminders of Sansa’s punishment on his bare chest and back as well; he could certainly still feel them.

“So, did you watch the game last night?” he asked Harry, leaning casually toward the knife block to his right. Petyr himself hadn't of course, and was only vaguely aware of there being one. He disdained athletics outside of the need for physical fitness, and considered team sports abhorrent, but found the pretence of interest a useful tool to engage with the stupid. The man latched onto the subject as something familiar he could comprehend, launching into a recap during which Petyr was able to interpose words of concurrence, commiseration, and amusement at appropriate times effortlessly.

He barely listened to it, staring at the cretin in astonishment of his sheer obliviousness. He’d fucked the man’s fiancée and screwed over his company, and his prey hadn't a clue. It had taken embarrassingly little to extract all he needed from the guileless fool--the worst of it was having to suffer through several rounds of golf with him at the exclusive club he’d joined solely to impress idiots--but it had been worth it. Up until that point, the firm had been an irritating roadblock in his plans, the owners stubbornly refusing to sell. His other competition had been dealt with efficiently, primed for exploitation, but the smaller, family-owned business had proved a challenge.

He’d uncovered Harry’s connection to Sansa when her name had flagged up next to his during his preliminary investigation into the building firm. It was bound to have happened eventually, seeing as he owned many of the better wedding venues in the region in a profitable side business. Setting up the initial encounter at her drug store had required a little effort but been worth every bit. Being that close to her again was intoxicating, and he’d wanted nothing more than to pull her flush against him and devour all he could touch, but restrained himself, knowing patience would serve him better. It was a tantalizing preamble to their proper meeting at his building. He delighted in her fire and beauty as she argued with him. His day had only gotten better when his adversary had turned out to be even more of an easy mark than he’d thought; a rabbit inviting a snake into his warren, snuggling into the coils wrapping around him, baring his throat to the fangs hungering for it. His employer’s plans, weaknesses, debts, and handy blackmail fodder spilled with almost no restraint--more than enough for Petyr make a move--without him ever expecting.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, really, considering that the man had evidently had the good fortune to somehow stumble into a relationship with Sansa, maintain it for several years, and parlay it into an engagement without ever managing to pay enough attention to her to learn how to pleasure her properly. From even the brief insight he'd gotten of their relationship talking to the brute, Harry clearly didn’t understand Sansa at all, hadn't even bothered to try. He certainly didn’t deserve her. Neither did Petyr, really, in a just world, but he would at least endeavor to make whatever use they had for one another mutually beneficial. Especially in bed.

He felt his exasperation piquing the longer Hardyng droned on, then he had a sudden, probably self-destructive impulse to poke the walking brain-dead. What he was about to do wasn’t wise or even thought-through entirely yet somehow nearly irresistible. Besides, he decided, if he was going to be beaten to a pulp by a glorified bricklayer, he might as well have it done on his terms. He shifted the cup of coffee between his hands to free the one closest to the knives in preparation, then let a smirk crawl over the friendly expression he'd set his features in. “Tell me,” he drawled, taking advantage of a pause in the man’s sporting soliloquy, “do you know what Sansa looks like after she's been well and properly fucked? Have you ever felt those impossibly long legs tremble around you out of sheer exhaustion, heard her voice rough from screaming your name, watched the sated blush spread over her skin, had your cock gripped so tight by her precious little cunt when she cums that it feels like you’re being strangled, but oh so sweetly?” He paused for effect before delivering the death blow. “I have.”

The twit sputtered incoherently, eyes bulging in an unflattering way. Petyr tensed, stretching a hand out on the counter toward the knives, awaiting the attack he knew would be coming at any second. Just as it looked like Hardyng would make a move, a voice broke through the tense stalemate.

“What the hell are you doing here, Harry?” Sansa appeared in the doorway like one of the warrior queens of her forbearers, arms crossed in fury, brows furrowed beneath the bed-mussed flames of her hair, wearing the same tantalizing slip she had on last night like it was armor. Other men might have felt their manhood threatened by a woman intervening on their behalf. Petyr just found it incredibly arousing.

The boy stared at her, agog. “Sansa?”

She twisted her lip in disdain. “If you came to retrieve this, you needn't have bothered. I would’ve sent it along with the rest of your junk.” She tossed the pitiful engagement ring at him.

Petyr thought it might bounce off his forehead, but the stunned man managed to bring a hand up in time to snag it mid-air in what was likely some sort of deep-seated athletic reflex. He stared at the sorry bit of jewelry as if unable to recognize it, before looking back up, his expression showing hurt and confusion. “I came to give you another chance,” he whined.

Sansa scoffed. “If you’d actually listened to me yesterday, you would’ve been spared the effort.”

Harry swallowed, then glanced at Petyr before returning his gaze to Sansa. “Did you fuck him?” he asked, righteous accusation coating the question.

Her hackles raised further. “That’s really none of your business now, Harry,” she sent back in a warning that was perfectly clear to Petyr.

The moron ignored it entirely. “You don’t even have the decency to deny it?” he challenged petulantly.

She snapped back, “Fine. I sucked his cock, he ate me out, then I fucked him in what used to be our bed. And you know what? I had more fun in forty-five minutes with him than the last two years with you.”

Petyr’s smugness and pride swelled with the praise, though he rather thought their encounter had lasted longer than three quarters of an hour. He put the inaccuracy down to her state of inebriation. Harry turned back to Petyr in fury and betrayal, and he barely managed to stifle a smirk; he’d clearly crushed the boy’s faith in the sanctity of male friendships. Perhaps he shouldn’t be getting off on this, as he might well still end up in a great deal of pain before the end, but it was proving impossible to resist. The larger man snarled, “You son of a bitch--”

Sansa interjected, commanding the attention of them both. “Don't look at him, look at me. This is between us. The travesty that was this relationship was doomed long before he ever got involved.”

“You goddamn whore,” Harry spat.

She laughed, a haughty, wicked sound that sent bolts of lust down his spine. “You know what? If actually enjoying sex for once makes me a whore, then guilty as charged.”

“How long have you been cheating on me?” her hapless ex-lover demanded, self-pity seeping from every pore.

Sansa shook her head, and he wanted to wince at the contempt in her eyes--like a blow to the throat--even when directed toward another. “I never did,” she hissed, “though maybe I should have. It would've made the years of boredom with you more bearable.”

Harry’s eyes clouded over in anger and Petyr started to get nervous. This had all the makings of a domestic murder-suicide, and while he deeply admired Sansa’s precise, thorough vivisection of her former lover, he wished to live long enough to reminisce about it. The bullish manchild stepped forward, readying himself to charge, but she stood her ground fearlessly, suddenly brandishing a container of what looked like mace at him. He was intrigued as to where she might have been hiding it. “Get out. Now,” she commanded. “I've already told you once before.”

“This is still my house!” Harry blustered.

Sansa snorted. “Technically, I suppose, but I pay most of the rent, all of it in the last six months at least, so let’s not act like your name on the lease is particularly important. Either way, you’re going to leave right now or I’ll empty this thing into your face.”

Hardyng’s mouth opened and shut wordlessly as Sansa stared him down, eyes fiery and posture of molded steel. Defeated, the ass turned away, trudging toward the door with muscled shoulders slumped. After they heard the door slam behind him, she tossed the canister on the counter with a disgusted sigh. She mumbled something about locks that Petyr didn’t think was meant for him. He eyed her carefully then ventured, “Good morning. Coffee?”

She glanced at the coffee pot behind him and back before answering, “Please.”

He tilted his head in inquiry. “Cream or sugar?”

“Just sugar,” she replied, eyeing him carefully.

He nodded and retrieved another cup, filling it and adding a spoonful of sugar from a nearby canister before offering it to her. She raised an eyebrow at his familiarity with her kitchen, but accepted the concoction nonetheless, murmuring,“Thank you.”

He watched her sip at the liquid, closing her eyes and leaning back against the counter. He waited patiently, very aware of her lingering fury, and drank his own substandard coffee quietly, content to have the opportunity to leer at her without interference. After a moment, she reopened them, eyes focused on him in assessment, and asked, “What did you mean last night when you said Harry would be working for you?”

He let the smirk playing at his lips widen. “Come Monday morning, your dear ex-fiancé is going to get the very unwelcome news that his employers’ considerable debts have been bought out by a third party, and their contracts renegotiated to a substantial reduction in pay.”

She absorbed the information with another quaff of bitter liquid. The look she gave him was suspicious, calculating, and wasn’t that a thing of beauty in itself. “You know, it’s strange; three of the developers I used to work with similarly fell on hard times in the last two years, quite suddenly, too.”

“Oh?” he offered non-committally. She set her half-full cup on the counter beside him, and he did the same. She stepped toward him, and he felt his breathing deepen in response.

“One of them declared bankruptcy, and the other two changed ownership.” She rested a hand on his chest, then slowly drew it down his abdomen. He’d been half-hard since she’d made her grand entrance earlier, and her touch now brought him to full attention.

He slipped his hands around her waist, and, sensing no resistance from her, started to rub the hollows of her hips beneath silk with his thumbs, letting them drift down with each caress. “How curious,” he murmured, tugging her closer.

She scratched her nails lightly over the erection straining the boxers he wore, the sensation just sharp enough to sting but without the pressure required to relieve any of the ache. It was exquisite. “Petyr, did you use me to get a monopoly on real estate development?” She sounded merely intrigued and not furious as he might’ve expected, her blue eyes bright, clear pools deep enough to drown.

He was unable to suppress a shudder. “No,” he sought to rectify, “I used _him_ to take control of the construction market in the greater metropolitan area and get _you_.” The distinction was important even if the ordinal position of those goals happened to be fluid at any particular time. At the moment, however, Sansa was coming out far, far ahead.

Her lips formed a soft smile even as her gaze turned penetrating. She tilted her head to the side, fingers playing lightly over the head of his cock, now weeping pre-cum through thin cloth from her ministrations. “And you think you have me, Mr. Baelish?” she drawled. If he’d been enthralled by the deviant little thing she’d been before, now she made his blackened, twisted husk of a heart skip a few beats.

He slid a hand down to creep beneath the hem of her nightwear and slipped between her parted thighs. He wanted to groan at the slick heat he found there. He curled his fingers and easily found the rough patch in the front wall of her pussy that made her clench around him, grinding the nub of her clit with his palm, and felt her start to drip into his hand. “I know I had you last night, Miss Stark, and judging by how wet you are right now, I’d venture to say I’ll be doing so again imminently,” he rumbled back.

Mixed with the lust in her eyes were questions that she evidently chose not to ask him in the moment, and the layer of reserve in the way she looked at him suggested a future reckoning--not unexpected considering their interactions over the past few weeks--but he’d take whatever she gave him in the meantime and adjust his approach as needed. He withdrew his hand from its favorite place only to hoist her up onto the kitchen counter, then replaced it immediately, eliciting a moan she tried to stifle behind clenched teeth. “Did he fuck you here?” he growled in her ear, finding bits of pristine skin on the delicate column of her neck he'd neglected to redden last night as he inched the material covering her higher.

She had to think about it, the hand she’d snuck beneath the waistband of his boxers encircling him loosely, which meant the answer was no, or the event was so unmemorable for it not to matter. Either way, he was going to erase any prior association she had with that bit of counter-space, and any other available surface he could convince her to defile. He had nothing planned for the day that couldn’t be canceled or rescheduled, after all. As he drew the slip up and over her head to remove the barrier impeding his enjoyment of her breasts, he wondered if she had any toys secreted away they might make use of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, I hope it was worth it. Thanks to GreedIsGreen and WriterChick for the strong and much appreciated beta work!


	10. Cat Got Your Tongue

Petyr had expected this.  After he had her on the counter, a seriousness took over and the inhibitions that had abandoned her the night before were fast finding her.  It was natural that without all the alcohol and the influence of the big dumb oaf she’d recently evicted, giving her something to prove, that she would be more guarded against the former lover who left her so abruptly.  It was predictable that she would suddenly start talking about all the things she had to do in the day to scoot him off and be alone to process what they’d just done.  

But that didn’t mean that Petyr had to allow reason to dictate things.  The more time she spent alone, the slimmer his chances of staying by her side.  That was unacceptable.  He was going to fight for her.  That had already been long decided, for years.  And Petyr was not some dumb jock who fought with his fists.  He would play whatever part necessary, say whatever needed, call in any favor.  The past twenty-four hours had all been nothing short of heavenly, but none of it mattered if the rest of his life did not match it.  What good was getting her to spread her legs for him if that was all he could have of her?  No.  He’d gone far too long without her to ever be satisfied with just one night. 

It was after the third time that she mentioned her “busy day” that he decided to play along.  “I completely understand.”  He watched her awkward smile as she began regaining her senses, picking herself up, and pulling away.  He picked up his clothes, his wallet and phone as if to get dressed and then stopped, offering her a mischievous grin, “We got quite  _ dirty. _  Mind if I grab a shower before I leave?”  

As she pulled her slip over her head, covering herself, she gave a polite smile, “Sure.”  

Once inside the boring bathroom, Petyr dumped all of his things on the counter, hearing the thud of the phone against the hard surface.  He yanked the two folded towels off the shelf and crammed them down into the dirty clothes hamper.  He started the water and called out, “You’re all out of towels!  Can you bring me one?”  

Her voice hesitant as she shouted back, “Yes, of course.”  

He smiled to himself at her trepidation.  She was smart to suspect that he may be up to  something.  He hopped into the shower and waited to hear the door unlatch before peeking around the curtain.  She was setting a folded towel on the countertop, and then turning to scurry out.  He stifled a smirk at the youthful response to the awkward situation and called out, “Sansa?”  

She startled and turned, “Yes?”  

“I can’t seem to get this to work.  Can you help me adjust the temperature?”  The ploy was so ridiculously obvious that the transparency of it worked in his favor.  

Sansa dropped her shoulders and rolled her eyes at him, “You’re kidding me.”

He lowered his head, giving a guilty smirk, as he looked up at her from under his eyebrows.  “Wouldn’t it be nice to clean each other up?  After how messy we made each other.”  

“Fine,” she sighed.  “But this is the last time, Petyr.  Then you have to go.”  She let her slip drop to the floor and stepped over the side of the tub to join him.  He relished the victory, however small it was, and immediately consumed her.  His arms wrapped around her and he burrowed his face into her neck, kissing and nipping, as he let his palms travel the slick planes of her body.  

She snuggled into his embrace, and let her hand grip his thigh before it found more.  Petyr only groaned in pleasure at her touch once before he whipped her around and filled her to the point of gasping.  Her palms lay flat on the tile wall, fingertips curling, as he moved in and out of her.  The red veins of hair painted down her back, all pointing to the round ass he repeatedly smacked into.  If any woman could ever satiate his hunger, it was Sansa, and though he’d had her numerous times now, he was far from full.  

His teeth scraped against the back of her neck, as they came, the warm water beading down his back.  Weakened by their exertion, he braced himself over her against the tile wall she had gripped, as he caught his breath.  A memory popped in his head, of a similar position and location, eight years prior.  He chuckled against her shoulder, “Remember that time we were in the shower?”  

“Yes.  My father asked if I’d fallen in.”  Sansa was too exasperated for her scolding to be taken seriously.  

The sudden sound of his phone vibrating on the counter, distracted him from a reply.  Petyr looked back at her, and decided to ignore it, when she nudged him, “Go answer it.”  

“It’s not important.”  He watched her turn into the showerhead, soaping her hair.  

She dug her fingers into her scalp as she lathered and countered, “You don’t know that.  Go check.”  

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”  Petyr smirked as his heart sank a little.  

“I am.  And have been.”  She didn’t bother to open her eyes and look at him as she moved her head under the stream.  Apparently it was easy for her to be so candid about rejecting him.  Petyr reminded himself that wanting a moment alone after all the moments they’d just shared, was not necessarily rejection.  It was regrouping, re-assessing, getting her bearings really.  Though Petyr knew that the minute she did that, rejection would soon follow.  He would keep her off-kilter as long as possible to avoid that.     

Willfully ignoring her, Petyr considered lathering up, but loathed to use Harry’s products, lest he start smelling like dirty laborer.  He had only truly asked for a shower to fuck her again.  If she was going to start to retreat, he was going to make damn sure she knew what she was stepping back from.  A lot had changed in eight years, especially between the sheets.  It seemed only right to offer her a chance to get educated on all the facts in making her decision.  She didn’t bother to look at him as she rinsed her hair, so he tore himself away from the view, knowing that his power was when she had her eyes and ears on him.  He stepped out and grabbed the towel off the counter to dry with.  He glanced down and saw a text message from a number that he didn’t recognize,  _ Leave her alone.   _

With the message there was a missed call from the same number.  Harry’s number had been programmed into Petyr’s phone since before day one, so he knew that it wasn’t the jilted lover.  He wondered if Sansa had any friends that may be feeling a touch protective.  If she was anything like she was eight years prior, she wouldn’t really have any real friends, ones that would care enough to take her side in an argument.  Just acquaintances that she got along with.  No casual acquaintance would be so invested as to warn him off.  Another text message buzzed,  _ You’re a disgusting man.   _

He could guess that wasn’t a man who texted him because whoever did message him had used his gender as an insult.  That only left Cat as a possibility.  He didn’t have to guess how she would have his number.  He had kept it the same, carrying it from cell provider to cell provider, on the off chance that Sansa would call him.  But then that begged the question of how Cat would know.  

The only other person to see them together was Harry.  And of course Harry would go running to her, to tell on Sansa.  This only furthered his belief that Cat approved of the wedding.  How terrible.  Petyr knew that Cat didn’t want her daughter to end up with the likes of him, but he would have assumed the woman he once loved would have the decency to know her own daughter.  Marriage to Harrold Hardyng would bleed the passion out of her.  Cat should be ashamed of herself for relegating Sansa to a depressingly vanilla life that would dull all the vibrancy from her.    

Petyr sighed, cursing the man-child for seeking the help of Sansa’s mother.  That was not sexy.  That was not how you won a woman like Sansa back.  It wasn’t even how you’d win the girl she used to be back.  Petyr decided that if none of this worked out, he at least played a part in ridding Sansa of that idiot.  He took a deep breath and decided not to respond.  He was with Sansa now, dealing with Cat could come later.  He clutched the phone as he heard the water turn off and watched the beautiful redhead behind him pull back the curtain and reach out for a towel.  Seeing an opportunity to continue the flirt, Petyr pulled the terry cloth from around his hips and handed it to her.  

She smiled as she looked down at his nakedness, “Nice, Petyr.  Real, nice.” 

“I thought you’d appreciate it.”  He gave her a quick wink to accent his smug smile.  

His phone buzzed again, another threat read,  _ Don’t you dare ruin her future like this. _

“You’re popular.”  Sansa smiled at him, though he noticed the slight wrinkle to her forehead in curiosity.

Petyr grabbed his boxers and lied, “Work calls hardly count as popularity votes.”  

Sansa began drying off, rubbing the towel over each breast and down her stomach.  Appreciating the sight of it, Petyr had forgotten that he was dressing.  His hands felt to his sides, the phone vibrated the next message,  _ You knew enough to leave before, you pervert. _

The sound of it caught Sansa’s attention, and she flicked a glance to the phone.  Seeing the screen, she stopped dead, confusion screwing up her face as she asked, “Petyr?  Why is my mom messaging you?  That’s my mom’s number…”

Well there it was.  Any probability that it was not Cat was now wiped out and he was correct, again.  Now that Sansa knew Cat was calling him directly, he no longer saw any pretense for secrecy.  “She’s messaging me, because your former fiance must have run to her and told her that we’ve slept together.”  

“Why would he do that?”  Sansa wrapped the towel around herself, hiding away her body from view as she processed the communication that was happening around her.  

Petyr resented that.  She was rejecting Harry, not Petyr, yet she covered herself from him all the same.  Petyr reached forward, cupping her cheek, trying to keep the connection that they had been building, “Because he intends to keep you.  Why else?”  

“That’s not how you keep me.”  Her arms crossed over her chest, closing off as she pulled out of his grasp and added, “I am not kept.”  

This was not the plan.  Petyr had intended to seduce her as he had her younger self.  He would fuck them back to where they were, and pick up where they left off before he was sent away.  He knew he had to talk fast, “ _ We _ know that.  But it doesn’t seem like they do.  And it seems they are willing to conspire together to keep you where they want you.”    

She shook her head, “No.  This is insane.  I dump my fiance then rebound off an old fling--”

“Old fling?  Rebound?”  He knew she was upset, but they were more than that.  And this was definitely not a rebound.  This meant something.  He felt his heart speed up as he faltered, thinking even if it was a rebound, there was nothing that said that he couldn’t convince her to build off of it.  He would show her.  It didn’t matter how they got together, just that they were.  

As if she hadn’t heard him, she continued, “--then my  _ mother _ calls  _ him _ .  Out of all people, why would she be calling you and not me right now?!”  

“Because Cat knows I’m responsible, and not just because Harry told her.”  Petyr sighed, realizing that now was as good a time as any to tell her why he left.  At her confused look, he explained.  “She found out, sweetling.”  He watched the color drain from her face and her eyes bulge.  Seeing the extreme nature of her reaction, Petyr decided to use the opportunity presented to distance her from the mother that knew her so little, “She kept us away from each other.”  

Petyr felt his heart pounding loudly in his chest, frantic in Sansa’s still silence.  He wanted nothing more than to reach for her, reanimate the woman that he’d idolized over the past eight years with his touch.  When she finally spoke, her voice sounded hard on the only word she would offer, “Maybe.”  

Petyr stood flabbergasted; he had actually been honest with her, and now she doubted?  Her eyes pointed like daggers as she declared her loyalty, “She was being a mother.  Protecting her daughter.”  

He felt his stomach drop at the realization that it was not with him that her loyalty lay.  The hot teenage girl he enjoyed, the what-if he longingly fantasized about, and the steadfast woman he’d come to crave, all ran behind their mother.  The woman who kept them apart.  The woman who colluded with a pathetic fiance to trap her.  If she would revert back to hiding behind her mother’s skirts, what was he to her?  He suddenly had to know, “And what was I?”  

“You were...” 

“Yes?”  He raised an eyebrow, keeping the calm facade, through the churn of his insides.  

She sighed as she admitted, “You were someone to protect daughters from.”     

Unwilling to crack, to show her his panic, he shrugged, “I thought that was the appeal.”  

“It was.  It was exciting and wrong and all the things that make you love every minute of it, knowing you’ll feel guilty after…   But it ended.  And it ended poorly.”  Her face was unreadable, but her voice gave away the conflict within.  

Conflict was good.  Conflict was a material not set, still malleable, still  _ workable. _  Petyr nodded his head, aligning with her.  “It did.”  If she was going to be loyal to Cat he knew her next logical step was to put blame back on him for how things ended.  He needed to keep the focus on Cat.  “I would have thought that Cat would have at least had the decency to talk to you about it.  I mean, it’s been eight years.  It’s not as if she hasn’t had the opportunity.”  

Her eyes dilated in heightened emotion, and he could almost see the wheels turning in her head.  He continued, “But no.  Instead she only talked to me.  Only talked to me then, and it appears as though she’s only talking to me now, too.  I would have thought she would respect you enough to talk to you directly.”  

Petyr watched the muscles in her forearm flex as she cracked her knuckles and pursed her lips at the suggestion that her mother disrespected her.  Her voice was careful as she added, “ _ And _ Harry.”  

Knowing exactly what she meant, but feeling it the better play not to, he asked, “Hm?”  

She spoke through her teeth, “And Harry.  She spoke to you.  And she spoke to Harry.  She did not speak to me.  Then or now.”  

Petyr remained silent, holding his arms close to him in a gesture of vulnerability.  She was connecting the dots, and he would help her.  He shrugged, “You said she was just trying to protect you.”  

“Yes.  From you.  Eight years ago.  She has nothing to protect me from now.  What did she say to you?”  She looked down at Petyr’s phone.  The way she swayed in front of him, told him there was a possibility however slight that she may just reach forward and take the phone from him.

Considering these were the first messages from Cat, Petyr had no past conversation history to hide and handed the phone over to her willingly.  He watched her lips purse and her eyebrow furrow as she read through Cat’s jabs at him.  She raised her head slowly and repeated, “Ruin my future?”  

“It appears as though she likes Harry.”  Petyr drove the point home, “Enough to consider him your future, and to work with him behind your back.”

She thrust the phone back in his palm as she began pulling things off the counter, in search of her own cellphone, “No one decides who I’m with but me!”  Sansa was halfway through typing a message when she continued, “What right does she have to choose him over me?  I’m her daughter!”  

Petyr took a step forward, seeing his opportunity.  He reached for her as he asked in a gentle voice, “What did you say to her?”  

“I told her to stop talking to Harry and you, and to instead talk to me.”  Her phone vibrated in her hand as she answered him without bothering to look up and acknowledge him.  

Her phone vibrated again and Petyr emphasized, “It’s important to know just how she hurt you.  How she hurt us.”

At that, she finally picked her head up, ignoring Cat’s rapid fire responses to her, “You never said a word to me, Petyr.  Not one word.  She may have stopped things.  But you chose how you ended them.  And I deserved better than that.”  

“Sansa--”   He was looking for the right words to say to keep her focus on her mother.

She cut him off, unwilling to listen to him be anything but forthright.  “My mother may not respect me, but apparently neither do you.”

Petyr shook his head, “No.  That’s not true.”  

“Yes, it is.  Eight years says so, Petyr.”  She glared at him before she texted something back to her mother, her thumbs jabbing at the screen.  Her phone started vibrating in her hand, indicating a call.  Petyr saw the screen and read,  _ Mom. _  She glanced up at him and shook her head, “You should leave.”  

Sansa had kicked two men out of her house in the same morning, and discovered that her mother had been working against her all this time.  It was a lot for his sweetling to take in.  Petyr pulled his clothes on, telling himself that he had waited this long for her, he could give her time to deal with things.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the co-writing ladies for reading this chapter over, and giving me license to run a little longer on it to not cut the emotion in it short. Also huge thanks to Greed for thinking of the title when I was totally coming up short lol.


	11. Vegan Pet Food

Sansa dithered with her phone, waiting as the man she’d spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours shagging dragged his clothes on. She refused to make eye contact with Petyr as she leaned against the wall, wrapped in nothing but a damp towel, purposefully ignoring the vibrations from her mobile as they traveled the length of her arm.

Petyr turned to her as he secured the last few buttons on his shirt. She finally met his eyes, then. They were more green than grey. Pools of indecision as they examined her face, looking for some sign of how to proceed. She saw as they darted to her lips momentarily, and he licked his own, a clear indication of his desire to kiss her. 

Her head bowed, eyes determinedly avoiding his gaze again. Sansa couldn’t think straight when he watched her that way. His scrutinizing leer stripped her bare of all pretense, but she was trying her damnedest to be the angry, jilted lover she alleged. Heaven help her if he discovered how much she’d actually missed him; how badly he’d hurt her.

A part of her wanted him to kiss her. Wanted him to stake his claim to her, to wrest back her carefully crafted control, so that she might get lost again in the hazy fog of lust only he seemed to inspire; so that she could hide from this clusterfuck that is her life for just a little while longer. Petyr Baelish made her want to throw it all away; everything she’d worked for, the safe, little nook in this world that she’d erected for herself. 

And that made him dangerous.

There would be no kisses. No loving send offs. No promises to see each other again soon. Not from her. She crossed her arms over her chest, turning her head towards the window to studiously watch a bird pecking at the grass. She hoped that he’d take the hint. Her body, her affection, was officially off limits to him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Petyr as he reach for his rumpled jacket from the floor; heard the slick rasp of the lining as he slipped his arms into it. Straightening the collar, he came to stand before her. His proximity, the blazing heat that radiated from him all along her body, caused her heart to pound furiously and air to become a precious commodity. Whether it was from annoyance or anticipation, she couldn’t say with certainty. Sansa looked down and away, closing her eyes, worrying her lip, hoping that he couldn’t see the effect he had on her. Or, at the very least, read it as the animosity that should be there; should be there, but wasn’t.

Warm digits lifted her chin, softly cradling as they enticed icy blue to meet inquisitive green. “I’ll be in touch.”

He paused, seeming to weigh the consequences in his head before placing a soft kiss to her temple. Were it witnessed by an outsider, Sansa knew it would almost seem platonic. But even as his lips left her skin, it burned, drawing out a wellspring of conflated emotion that she struggled to contain beneath her callous exterior. It was only at the sound of his retreating footsteps, echoing through the house, and the slam of front door that she allowed that tenuous hold to break. A stuttering inhale seized her lungs, constricted her chest.

The sound of tinkling bells sprung from the phone in her hand, shattering, at last, the final barrier between the false sanctuary of last night and the reality of today. Sansa sneered as she looked to the screen in disdain--1 new message. Anger, pain, confusion that bubbled beneath the surface finally broke as she hurled the offending object across the room with an exasperated roar. Fingers tangled in the wet copper strands as she slunk to the floor, tears stinging, staining her cheeks. 

What was she doing? She’d promised herself she wouldn’t fall into his bed again, but here she was--freshly fucked, and feeling just as naive as ever. They were so entangled in one another last night (and this morning, she begrudgingly admitted) they hadn’t even thought to use protection. The soreness between her legs still new enough to act as proof of her own weakness. Would it always be this way between them? This unhealthy, carnal addiction; an ouroboros of lust, and need, and pain, and want never ending; always circling, always devouring.

The vibration of the phone rattled through the room, bringing Sansa out of her morose contemplation. She wiped the tears from her eyes with the backs of her palms. Figuring out how to deal with Petyr would have to wait. There was a more pressing beast that needed to be slain today--her mother.

Sansa gathered herself off the floor, letting the towel drop and pool; the last remnant of her momentary vulnerability. She ignored the insistent beckoning of her mobile for the time being, deciding instead to choose her armor. No tasteful dresses or skirts or cute heels would do. No makeup to hide the blemishes, to hide the puffiness that rimmed her eyes in red. False courtesy, false civility wouldn’t do. She wanted to be open, to be raw. She wanted her mother to see her as she was, not the pretty little doll that she pretended to be with her floral dresses and niceties. She chose a pair of ragged jeans, a faded t-shirt, and an old hoodie to keep the spring chill at bay. She didn't bother with underthings. An odd, subtle rebellion against the controlling mother she was about to confront.

As she hooked her hair into a makeshift ponytail, Sansa walked over to pick her phone off the floor. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. The sharp fissures irritated her fingertips as she unlocked it to check the message left for her. 

When Harry’s grating voice traveled over the line, she huffed. There was nothing, absolutely nothing he could say that would make her take him back. No way to repair what never should have been. The message was deleted before his pleas could begin. 

The phone log showed multiple calls from her mother. At least she had the good sense not to leave a half-assed message. There was also one text: _We need to talk._

Well that was an understatement. 

Anger bloomed, a murderous illumination of red, casting light on every interaction she’d shared with her mother over the past eight years. The very indignation of it formed a lump in her throat that she couldn't swallow down. Had it all been lies? Sansa had never been close to her mother as a child. It was the result of being the eldest girl of five. Her younger siblings often taking priority, even as all the high expectations rested in her lap. The pressure all the more daunting after Robb ran off and eloped with his high school girlfriend. Sansa had genuinely thought her mother was taking an active interest because she cared. Now, with the understanding of what her mother knew, doubts about those motivations tugged heavily at the edges of her mind. 

Feet shuffled her into the kitchen unconsciously, and when she finally looked up, the vodka bottle was staring back at her. 

_This is all your fault._

Except, that it wasn't. It would be easy to blame the alcohol, but the problems were always there, lingering in the background. The anger fueled the inebriation fueled the frustration fueled the anger. A twisted cycle that coiled tighter and tighter, waiting to be sprung with explosive ramifications.

A confrontation needed to happen with her mother, and it needed to happen eight years ago if Petyr was to be believed. This couldn’t wait. It was happening now. 

Determination set her brow, and before she realized what she was doing, she was inside her car, keys in the ignition. She halted just as she was about to start it up and leave. She couldn’t go the the Stark home. No, she would not head there like an errant child facing her punishment. That was her mother's domain; her seat of power. Sansa pulled up the texting app on her phone, and quickly tapped out an address for her mother. It would be private, and more importantly, neutral. Only when her mother sent her acceptance did she start the car and head out. 

The vegan pet food factory stared at her from across the street. The kitten on the sign taunting her. The very idea of its existence only furthered the churning ire that built in the pit of her stomach. Leave it to fucking vegans to ignore the truths of biology. To try and take the image of an obligate carnivore, a machine designed to kill and eat meat, and attempt to sanitize it; alter its being in an attempt to turn it into something that it is not. Sansa suddenly found a very real connection with the feline population, her own claws at the ready, as she watched her mother’s little hatchback pull into the lot.

Sansa exited her vehicle and beelined for the lock on the property door. She still had the current access codes from her trip with Petyr yesterday afternoon, and it was unlikely they would be interrupted once inside.

The clack of her mother’s heels came up behind her. “Sansa-”

“Not out here,” she ground out. 

The lock in the door clicked, and Sansa swept it open, not bothering to hold it for her mother. She heard as Cat grunted behind her as it slammed heavily into her mother's side, and Sansa suppressed the smirk that wanted to break free. 

As she continued her trek into the deepest recesses of the building, Cat finally asked, “Sansa, what is this place? Why are we here? Why couldn't we have talked at the house?” Her voice was a strained whisper threaded with uncertainty. 

_Good._

Sansa wanted her off balance; wanted her uncomfortable. She kept walking. 

“Sansa Minisa Stark, you stop right now with this foolishness!” She stomped her foot like a petulant child, fists tight at her sides. “I am your mother!”

Sansa halted in the large foyer at her mother's attempted upbraiding. She turned on her heels, planting hands to hips. “Fine. Then let’s talk. Let’s really talk,” she said expressing her extreme annoyance. “How long were you going to keep this up?”

“Ideally? Forever,” Catelyn spat.

Sansa's eye widen. “What?”

“As soon as I found out what Petyr had-”

“No,” Sansa interrupted. “This is not about Petyr.” She paced. “I understand why you did what you did with Petyr. I was sixteen. He was forty. It was immoral, illegal, and a whole host of other sketchy issues that don't need to be reiterated now.” Sansa caught her mother's eyes. “This is not about Petyr. It’s about you completely disregarding and disrespecting my choices.”

Catelyn straightened her posture, giving off that imperious parental dismissal that Sansa knew well from childhood. “I-I don't know what you mean.”

“You don’t know?” Sansa gave a scoffing laugh. “Well let’s start with the latest issue, shall we? Harry.” The name echoed off the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It was an accusation. 

Catelyn decided this was her opening to plead on the oaf’s behalf. “Harry loves you, and he's such a good man, Sansa. He deserves better than this,” Sansa was completely taken aback. _He deserves better?_ “and he's willing to work things out. Why, if that isn’t-”

“Oh my god, mother, shut up!” Her brows furrowed with consternation. Her mother was avoiding the real issue and Sansa refused to let her. “I don't care what Harry deserves, and neither should you! You should be caring about what your daughter deserves, but you never have!” 

Cat sputtered, “I do! I do care!” She held her hands wide. “Why do you think I've done all this? I would never have pushed Harry your way if I didn't think he could make you happy.”

There was a sinking feeling, a realization only half formed, half seen or understood as she took in her mother’s words. “You knew Harry before I met him?”

“Yes,” admitted Catelyn. “And if trying to ensure my daughter’s happiness is a crime, toss me in jail and throw away the key. If Petyr hadn't come along and ruined everything…”

Her mother’s words drifted into the background, a murmur only partially perceived, as Sansa thought back and back and back until the truth emerged. “You planned this? All of this.”

That finally stopped Catelyn’s rambling about the devil that was Petyr Baelish, and she looked at her daughter. “I wanted what was best for you. To protect you from yourself.”

“So what? You decided to plan my life without me?” She placed a hand over her heart. “Do you have so little respect for me?”

“Of course, I respect you, sweetie.” Her mother hesitated. “It’s just, after… everything,” Sansa assumed here that she meant her affair with Petyr, “I felt maybe you needed a guiding hand.”

Sansa laughed sharp and harsh, and Catelyn looked concerned for a moment that the building might come down around their heads.

“I’m twenty-four, mother. Were you really going to try and control me for the rest of my life?” Her words were laced with poison.

“No. No, that would have been impossible. I just… You’ve always been a bit difficult. I hate using the word selfish, but that’s about as close as I can get to what I mean. You don’t think things through. You don’t think about how what you do affects the people around you. You’re very single minded about what you want, and I thought that once you were married with a few kids, you would settle down. Think of others for a change.” Catelyn said it so matter-of-factly that Sansa had to blink back her disbelief.

“I-” Sansa was speechless. She studied the ceiling, the cracked and missing tiles, the cobwebs and insulation hanging down, desperately trying to understand where her mother was coming from. Was it selfish to want things for herself? To want to be in control of her own future and the type of life she wanted? No, that's not it. What else had she said? 

_You don’t think about how what you do affects the people around you._

Sansa was wrong. “This isn’t about me being selfish. This is about Petyr. You don’t trust me because of the relationship I shared with Petyr.” It always comes back to him.

Catelyn’s posture stiffened. She walked towards a broken mirror on the far wall, and ran a finger over the dust that gathered in the well of the frame. “Well I can’t argue that that didn’t precipitate the issue.”

Sansa leaned against an archway, arms crossed as she studied her mother’s reflected image. Her eyes were downcast, shamed. “Why didn’t you say anything? You never confronted me about it. You just let me believe that he left. That he had gotten what he wanted, and abandoned me.”

“What good would it have been?” Her mother looked at her through the mirror, then turned to meet her daughter’s curious stare. “What’s done is done. I did what I had to do to protect you--from him, from yourself. If I had thought prosecuting him would have done any good, I would have, but it wouldn’t. It would have dragged the family name through the mud, and broken your father’s heart. Potentially, ruined your future if your name got out. Which it would. It always does in these things. Family, duty, honor. Those are the words that I was taught growing up, and those are the words that I live by.”

Sansa almost felt sympathy for her mother’s conundrum. Almost, except for one very poignant issue. “I suppose I can get that, but I need to understand why you’ve been trying to plan out my future. There are so many things that I wanted to do that you convinced me were a bad idea. Why?”

Catelyn pulled her purse closer to her body, giving away her discomfort. “Like I said, I was trying to protect you.”

“From what? A degree in finance? An internship in France?” Sansa rolled her eyes, tilting her head to the side.

Her mother scoffed, venom dripping from her voice. “A degree in finance? Come on now. How many tutoring sessions did you have with Margaery to get through your senior year?”

“What?” Sansa uncrossed her arms, indignation flaring. “The only time I had a tutor was when I was eleven, and placed in advanced algebra by mistake. I wasn’t taking lessons from Margaery. I was giving _her_ the lessons. I graduated with an A in calculus, thank you very much.” A disgruntled idea dawned. “Did you never listen?”

Her mother dropped her head, guilt clinging to her shoulders. “I may have dialed it in on occasion. I couldn’t keep up with all five of you. Between Arya’s shoplifting, and Bran’s doctors' appointments, and Robb and then you…” she trailed off. “It was a bit much to take all at once.”

“I can imagine. But when Arya decided to study in Spain, you didn’t stop her. When Bran chose to go travelling cross country despite his health issues, you didn’t stop him. When Robb eloped, you welcomed Talisa with open arms. Why do you accept whatever they do, and constantly question my choices?”

“Because… because I don’t want you to end up like your aunt,” stated Catelyn sadly.

Sansa stayed quiet, waiting for her mother to elaborate. She had never known her aunt, but knew from quietly muttered words that she wasn’t meant to overhear that her Aunt Lysa wasn’t a stable individual. That shortly after her husband’s death, she committed suicide, jumping from her apartment’s seventh story window. 

Eventually, Catelyn explained, “You aunt was in love with Petyr, and it killed her. Or rather, his rejection of her did. I don’t want to see that happen to you. You remind me of her so much at times. It’s frightening to me.”

The anger that burned low beneath the surface of Sansa’s skin cooled somewhat at her mother’s revelation. This clearly went deeper than she had initially thought. Her mother blamed Petyr for Aunt Lysa’s death, but why? Sansa couldn’t fathom blaming a person for not loving another the way they want; not even if it led to someone’s death. However, she tried to her best placate her mother’s misplaced censure. “I’m not Aunt Lysa, though. And, I’m not in love with Petyr.” At least, she didn’t _think_ she was. Whatever she felt for him was too complicated for that term.

“But you are sleeping with him.” 

It was a statement, not a question, but Sansa felt compelled to answer it anyway. “Yes,” she sighed.

“And how long has that been going on?” Catelyn asked.

“What does it matter?” Sansa’s hackles rose, and she felt her face flush hotly. Discussing her sex life with her mother was very high on the list of things entitled DO NOT WANT.

“Because, if it was just the one night, you could still salvage your relationship with Harry. Chalk it up to wedding nerves. He would forgive you. I know he would. You could be happy if you would just be willing to give it a shot,” her mother pleaded.

Sansa covered her eyes, giving her temples a gentle massage as she tried to power through this conversation. “You don't get it, do you? I wasn't happy with Harry. I’ve never been happy with him.”

“Don't be silly.” Catelyn waved her hand dismissively. “Of course you are. Once we get Petyr out of your life, you and Harry can get married, and have babies. You-”

“You’re not listening!” Sansa yelled with frustration. “I don’t _want_ to marry Harry. And not just because of wedding nerves, or because I’m trying to spite you, or whatever excuses you’re trying to make up in your head. I don’t love him.” Her mother wore an expression of motherly understanding, but clearly she didn’t get it. Perhaps it was time to ply her with a bit of truth. ”I had an abortion, mother. A month before Harry proposed, I went to the nearest clinic, and I had an abortion, because I didn’t want _his_ child.” Cat’s face paled, mouth agape at Sansa’s confession. Pushing through, Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and continued, “The thought of being tied to him for the rest of my life makes me physically ill.”

“You never said…” Cat’s voice trailed off as she looked at her daughter, maybe realizing for the first time how little she knew her. “Does Harry know?”

“What?” asked Sansa with incredulity. “No. And I’m not going to tell him. It’s none of his business. But this…” She pointed accusingly at Catelyn. “This is what I’ve been trying to figure out since we walked in here.”

“What do you mean?” her mother questioned.

“That complete and total disregard for my feelings. Instead of asking about me, you're all concerned with poor Harry! If you're so goddamned worried about that lout, maybe you should marry him,” Sansa spat with contempt.

“That’s not what I meant. You're twisting my words,” Catelyn argued. “I only thought he should have known. It was his child, too.”

"What child? There was no child. And I had already planned to end things by that time, but then,” Sansa sighed, shaking her head. “Then, everything got muddled.”

Her mother interjected quickly, “Because you loved him and felt guilty, and-”

“Fuck. Would you please listen?! I don't love Harry. I never loved Harry. I only agreed to marry him because it's what you wanted!” The admission rattled off so quickly that Sansa hadn’t realized just how true it was until it was out of her mouth. Appeasing her mother had become so second nature that Sansa hardly thought of it as such, but now, with her future on the line, calling a spade a spade seemed pertinent.

“Me?” Catelyn was outraged at the implication. “Don't go blaming this on me. You're a grown woman and you made your own bed.”

“You’re right. I did.” The honesty in that statement hurt. “But now it’s on me to fix it. I’ve spent the last eight years trying to be what you wanted me to be, and I can’t do that anymore. It is killing me. I’m not you. I’m not someone who will be content as a little housewife with five kids, who attends a book club to get drunk once a week.”

Her mother’s face screwed up. “How dare you judge me?! I didn't raise you to behave this way.”

“You didn't raise me at all,” Sansa grit out. The implication hung heavy around them both until Sansa found her voice again. “You didn't even bother spending time with me until after Petyr left, and now I know what prompted your sudden interest. Tell me, mother, if I hadn't fucked him in every room of the house, would you have been so concerned about me?”

“I am not going to dignify that with a response,” her mother huffed. “I think we’re done here. You want to make your own choices? Fine! But don't come crying to me when it all blows up in your face. I'm done saving you from yourself.” Catelyn turned, marching indignantly out of the decrepit building. 

Sansa braced her hands behind her head, swaying from foot to foot, as she watched her mother go. She hadn't meant to rip into her so towards the end. Only, maybe she did. She wasn't sure. Eight years of frustration, of tenuous, willowy familial support, of lies upon lies came tumbling out and around her shaky foundation, flipping the world upside down. Is the sky supposed to be green? Well, it is now. 

As Sansa made her way back to the car, she realized her eyes were dry. She didn't shed one angry tear during their discussion. Sansa felt more at ease with herself than she had in a long time; the confrontation having lifted the idealized veil that had hidden her. No more was she a slave to appeasement. Suddenly, the world, that at one time pressed so tediously on her shoulders, revealed endless possibility. Idly, she played with idea of getting out of real estate, going back to school, relaying a new path forward. It was an exciting prospect, and elicited the first real joy she’d felt in a long time. 

On the way home, Sansa made a quick stop by the hardware store. The locks needed replacing, and while she wasn’t the handiest of women, she could damn well manage that.

The sun was just going down as she pulled into the pitted driveway of the rental house--her rental house now. She’d never really thought of it as hers. Sansa paused a moment to examine it. The eaves needed to be cleaned, the trim was peeling, there was some weird green mold growing at the bottom of the stucco. God, this place was a dump. Maybe she should just move. Let Harry have the damn thing if he loved the trash heap so much. Her head hit the steering wheel. How far had she allowed him to drag her down, all in the name of pleasing her mother, pretending to be the perfect daughter. The absurdity caused her to laugh. Really laugh. Loud and full until her sides hurt. God, she was a mess. 

She pulled herself together and gathered the hardware and tools that she’d picked up. The free boxes she’d finagled out of the store to pack Harry’s belongings could wait. Digits filtered through her keys as she approached the house, looking for the one that would soon be replaced. It scraped in the lock, and as the door opened, Sansa heard papers flutter to the floor. 

Shutting the door behind her, Sansa looked around. It was likely just a solicitation. Someone offering lawn or painting services. They got at least one on the weekly. Her belongings, as well as the shopping bag, were set in the chair and she saw the white corner of her quarry peeking out from beneath. She picked it up, intending to crumple it, toss it, but it wasn't what she was expecting. 

It was a large packet. Sansa let out a shaky breath as she began reading the header. It was the contract to the wedding venue. 

There in Harry’s chicken scratch he called cursive was his signature. She flipped through the paper, finally spying what she was looking for. A post it; a simple message. 

_It’s your call, sweetling._


	12. Ad Quod Damnum

 

Sansa dropped the pile of papers on her kitchen table with a sigh, not nearly ready to make a decision yet. Some of the more mundane, practical implications of last night jostled to the fore of her mind. She made a mental note to schedule a doctor’s appointment--just to be safe--and demand a clean bill of health from Petyr, certainly before they engaged in any further activity. It was fortunate she’d gotten more reliable contraception since the scare with Harry. Pregnant was the last thing she wanted to be at the moment, but she did briefly entertain the image of her mother’s head exploding upon finding out she was carrying Petyr’s child.

 

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d had little more than coffee and vodka for the last eighteen hours. She made her way to the fridge, managing to forage enough of its meager contents to make a sandwich. Sitting at her kitchen table, she consumed her bland but adequate meal with deliberation, resolutely not looking at the contract or the section of the counter she’d allowed Petyr to screw her on. Even so, she had to press her thighs together against the ache the memory provoked unbidden. He’d tried to distract her with sex, and it had worked initially; she vowed to not succumb to it again. She rubbed the marks he left on her neck in annoyance--they’d be quite visible unless she put effort into covering them up.  If he thought he’d somehow claimed her from Harry, slithered back into her good graces, he was sorely mistaken. She’d been right to be paranoid. Petyr had likely set up everything, all their ‘random’ encounters, for his benefit. Still, at least some of  the rage she’d displaced on him was due to her mother and ex-fiance instead. He was still the manipulative bastard he’d always been, but she had to acknowledge that he wasn’t responsible for the disaster that was her relationship with Harry, nor her mother’s betrayal. Petyr had earned enough of it on his own anyway. If the punishing contract was his ploy to win her over, though, it wasn’t enough. She deserved explanations, and if he wasn’t going to be forthcoming, she would sever whatever connection they had without hesitation.

 

Shoving the thorny subjects to the back of her mind to stew, she decided to take the rest of the day for herself. She didn’t bother changing; her outfit was a direct reflection of the dearth of fucks she had left to give. She set the stereo to blast an angry, cathartic soundtrack, reveling in the ability to stretch into the space that was now all hers, and went to work. The mechanical task of changing the locks was oddly satisfying, and cleansing the house of Harry’s physical presence was rewarding in itself, even if she wasn’t sure she was going to stay there. Aside from a decrease in clutter, the defenestration process had surprisingly little effect on the overall aesthetics of the house. Most of the decor and furniture was hers, perfectly symbolizing how little he’d brought to their relationship and how hard she’d tried to make it work, striving for the mundanity her mother wanted that never fit. She shoved his shit--clothes in various states of cleanliness, boots permanently caked in dirt and grime, his collection of beer mugs (none of which matched, which had always irritated her), sports equipment, the few books he owned, piles of magazines, DVDs, etc.--into boxes and stuck it on the porch. She likewise dragged out the ratty recliner, sagging (though thankfully light) futon he’d insisted on keeping, and kegerator that had been a collective blight on their living room. She would text him a time to pick them up when she wasn’t home, then block his number. If he didn’t retrieve the trash pile promptly, it was all going to the curb.

 

As she worked, she wondered when her mother was going to inform other members of her family or try to get them to talk some sense into her. The answer came about an hour or so into her purge when she was interrupted while emptying the bathroom of his things by her phone ringing; a look at the screen revealed her father’s number. Their relationship had always been warmer than the one she had with her mother, and she was pretty sure she could still play the darling daughter to the hilt--growing up, it seemed she could do no wrong in his eyes--but she wasn’t ready to pick up, and instead waited for the inevitable voicemail.

 

Her father’s gruff voice made her smile--he hadn't been able to understand her any more than her mother, but at least he had tried--even as his words exasperated her. “Hey honey, your mother’s really upset with you right now. I’m not sure what happened, but she said you were thinking of calling off the engagement. I’m really worried about you, sweetheart. Please call me back when you get the chance.”

 

 _Jesus fucking Christ_. Was she going to have to explain to everyone individually that she and Harry were through? Maybe a public announcement would be quicker, perhaps she could buy a billboard or arrange skywriting to drive the point home. Her mother clearly hadn’t told him about Petyr, or else he’d be calling from jail after stringing him up by his balls. She let it be for the moment, irritation adding more force to the toss of each toiletry item than she’d meant, resulting in some cracked and leaking containers that she would have to clean up later.

 

When she was finished boxing everything up and hauling it out the front door, she returned to where the signed contract with its note sat on the table, eyeing it as she sipped a glass of water. It beckoned a siren call to the destruction of the man who'd stolen two years of her life at her mother’s urging; it was hardly a precision strike, however, for if she deployed it the fallout would cause collateral damage to her relationships with her mother and the rest of her family. Her mother would see it as her picking Petyr over them, even though it wasn’t about that. Furthermore, the strings attached to the offer led back to a man she still didn't trust. It would be impossible to decide until she knew exactly what price he wanted in return and she didn't want to be in his debt ever again. She needed answers about the situation with Harry, his history with her aunt, and why he hadn't bothered to contact her for eight years before she even considered it. She frowned as she sucked on an ice cube, the smooth edges pressing into her tongue and numbing it. She needed a place where she would have the advantage. As last night proved, she couldn’t trust herself around Petyr anywhere isolated--certainly not the abandoned property that had been the battleground with her mother.

 

She settled on a location where she’d be comfortable, public enough to keep his habitual impropriety to a minimum but also allow for the privacy they’d need. Said man had shown remarkable restraint in giving her space to come to a decision, but she let him stew for a few more hours (she’d had years, it was only fair) before texting him the time and place. He agreed almost instantly, as if he’d been staring at the phone waiting for the text to come. With that settled, she sat down with a bowl of popcorn in her newly claimed living room to watch trashy television in an effort to empty her mind of anything, then afterwards shuffled off to bed, thoroughly exhausted. Somehow the sheets smelled like Petyr instead of Harry, as if he’d physically displaced the younger man’s ephemeral presence even in the place he’d slept for two years. She wrinkled her nose in irritation, but allowed herself the weakness of snuggling into the scent and the comfort it brought, and drifted off to sleep. She dreamt she was lost in a wood on an ever-more entangled path, watched from the shadows by eyes of mossy green.

 

************

 

“Here you go, medium extra-shot latte, as usual.”

 

“Thanks,” Sansa replied, taking the cup offered by the other woman with a polite smile. She shifted the bag with her chosen pastry to the hand holding her coffee to check the time on her phone. There was still an hour left before they were to meet, but she suspected Petyr would be early. Still, she could try to get some work done in the meantime.

 

She’d arrived extra early to stake out the territory. She’d chosen the cafe she stopped by on the way to work most mornings--it provided cozy if unfancy surroundings, but with decent food and excellent coffee. She made her way back to her selected table, in a quiet corner near the back private enough for their ensuing conversation but still within sight of the front counter. The friendly eyes of the staff should hopefully prove a check to Petyr’s ever-inappropriate behavior--in theory at least.

 

Taking a sip of her coffee, she opened her laptop and shuffled through the neglected paperwork she’d intended to get caught up on this weekend. Those good intentions had been blown to hell, but she would try to complete the parts she could do in her sleep, at the very least. She’d actually awoken the next morning refreshed despite her troubling dreams, feeling so much lighter without the burden of Harry weighing her down. She focused on the details of the report in front of her, trying not to watch the clock or consume her drink too fast, and soon lost herself in the lulling drudgery, soothed by the background noise of espresso machines and quiet conversation, nibbling at her blueberry scone in between page turns.

 

Three-quarters of an hour had passed when she felt the weight of a very familiar pair of eyes on her, and looked up. Her over-caution was justified; Petyr had arrived early, as she expected. He looked good, damn him, in a dark blue shirt with the collar unbuttoned sans tie under a casual jacket.

 

“Good morning, sweetling,” he drawled, gaze roaming up and down her form hungrily.

 

“Hello Petyr,” she answered evenly, hiding her nerves behind a neutral mask. Her own attire was not an invitation; she'd worn jeans--not a skirt, she’d made that mistake once already--and chosen a shirt with a neckline high enough to hide the marks he made, intended to deprive him of the opportunity to preen over his handiwork.

 

She chose not to get up as he moved toward her, stepping around the table, and turned her head away from him when he invaded her personal space, but it didn’t dissuade him from kissing her on the cheek. She fought the flush crawling up her neck, ignoring the skin that burned under his lips. Anger spiked at the presumption, inflamed more by her own body's traitorous response to his touch, and he took the seat across from her, leering. She packed away her laptop and all her paperwork except the contract, laying it on the table between them deliberately. Petyr watched in silence for a few beats before asking with an expectant raise of his eyebrow, “Well?”

 

“I haven't decided.” He quirked his head to the side in amused inquiry, but waited for her to continue. She kept her voice steady as she met his stare with a probing one of her own. “Do you know why my mother has tried to manipulate every part of my life since you left?” A look of surprise flashed briefly before it was hidden behind a shuttered expression. Petyr clearly hadn't been expecting that to be her first question, but it was central to the whole tangled affair. He stayed silent. She narrowed her eyes at him, and let ice creep into her tone. “She said it was because I reminded her too much of my aunt.”

 

He sighed heavily, sitting back, tapping his fingers on the table. Fidgeting at all was atypical for him. It clearly wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss but if he declined to answer, it would make her decision much easier. He looked away for a moment as she waited patiently. He turned back to her, looking irritated. “Lysa was always troubled, less than stable”, he answered. “She became delusional, believing we shared some sort of relationship that was never real.”

 

“Did you fuck her?” She shot back coolly: It had been the subtext she'd read between the lines of her mother’s vague explanations.

 

He huffed. “Once, regrettably, when we were both very drunk,” he replied, a look of disgust passing over his face, “nothing more than that.” The thought of it turned her stomach, but it wasn't a surprise. He continued pensively. “A few weeks after I’d moved out of your house, Lysa called me, said your mother had told her about us. She tried to use the information to blackmail me into a relationship with her. When that didn’t work, she threatened to kill herself. She’d done it before, of course, even made several unsuccessful attempts--slitting her wrists, overdosing on pills--and was well-known to the medics.

 

“I contacted the authorities more in the interest of self-preservation than anything else,” he offered, the explanation dispassionate, logical. “By the time they’d reached her, however, she’d thrown herself out of the window of her apartment. Actually did a good job of it this time,” he laughed mirthlessly, his eyes cold. “I had to make a statement, but the investigation was perfunctory. As you might guess, I did not make an appearance at the funeral.” He bared his teeth in a wry grin. Sansa was disconcerted both by his words and apparent lack of remorse--or any feeling but disdain--for his role in her aunt’s death, but hid it behind a sip of her cooling coffee. Sansa hadn’t gone to the service either; her mother and father went without any of the Stark children, and refused to talk about it afterwards. That her mother had equated Sansa’s affair with Petyr to her aunt’s self-destructive, deranged obsession was hurtful. She’d been naive, certainly, and had her youthful feelings crushed under his absconding heels, but whatever twisted mess lay between herself and Petyr had always been reciprocal on a basic level.

 

A cold sort of ire crept into Petyr’s mien as he continued after a pause. “But before she died, apparently, she’d sent a long, rambling suicide note via email to Cat that implicated me in both our relationship and her own death. Your mother sent it to me a few weeks later, along with the assurance that if I ever spoke to you again, she would use it against me. She’s been holding it over my head ever since, using it to keep us apart, don’t you see?” His eyes searched hers, voice dropping to a low, entreating rasp. “You see what she’s been doing to the both of us. Are you still going to let her come between us?” he implored, trying to reach across the table to grasp her hand, but she pulled it away.

 

She frowned, snapping back, “There isn't an us, Petyr. There barely was eight years ago, and you ruined whatever that might have been.”

 

He dropped his hand but still leant over the table toward her, beseeching, “You don’t think I wanted to answer the phone every you called? Do you have any idea how much it killed me not to be able to see you, touch you again? I couldn’t risk it. I knew Cat would be monitoring your calls. Up until last year, what she had could’ve put me in prison.”

 

She raised an eyebrow, turning the familiar sardonic expression back on its originator. “Someone as clever as you think yourself to be, you really couldn’t come up with some way of contacting me without her finding out?” she inquired disdainfully.

 

He swallowed hard, his eyes flitting back and forth between hers. “I tried calling you on your birthday but your number was disconnected,” he offered lamely, as if that made up for anything at all.

 

Sansa shook her head. “My mother changed all our numbers when we switched carriers.” She’d given up on contacting him by then, though she had kept trying for far longer than her dignity would like to admit. Her mother had made a big show of crowing about the deal she’d gotten, but now her motivations seemed much more devious than the mere good financial sense she’d claimed. Sansa might’ve been more suspicious at the time if she hadn’t been determined to bury the whole sorry incident down as deep as possible and move on with her life.

 

“She’s tried to take away your choices. She clearly doesn’t respect you.” Petyr pounced on the opportunity to further his case, evidently endeavoring to shift the blame back to her mother.

 

“And you do?” she countered, narrowing her eyes at him in skepticism. He started, trying to recover, but she soldiered on before he could formulate a reply. “Even if I accept that all of that is true,” she snarled, noting his impatience in a tightening of the set of his mouth, “it doesn’t explain why you left without a single word.” She focused on her anger as opposed to her pain, letting some of the stored-up animosity add bite to her accusations. “That last night, you could’ve said something, done literally anything other than what you did--fuck me one last time then disappear. The rose was what, a parting gift? You really thought that was enough?” She glared at him, letting him bear the full brunt of her fury.

 

His expression faltered and shifted as he scrambled to counter her assault. “I was trying to protect you--”

 

“Bullshit,” she fired back, not willing to let him wriggle free once again. “You did it to protect yourself. You were too much of a coward to even break it off properly. What excuse are you going to try now?”

 

He was silent, unable to come up with a response for once. Disgusted, she shook her head, grabbed her bag, and stood, intending to leave. As she tried to step by him, however, Petyr’s hand shot out to grab her arm.

 

“Sansa--” his voice broke over her name, and that, along with the clear panic in his eyes, was what made her pause more than the fingers tight around her wrist--the mask he carefully maintained between himself and the rest of the world had fractured, and for her alone. The hint of vulnerability somehow settled the roiling knot in her stomach, and so she waited.

 

He stared up at her unblinking and cleared his throat, but his voice was still rough and deep as he intoned, “You’re right. I was selfish and a coward. But I never wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

 

She blinked, tried to remove her hand from his, not liking the way the sweep of his thumb over the inside of her wrist was making her heart beat faster, giving him a tell of her feelings, but his grip tightened. The man could talk his way out of a black hole, but somehow, she didn’t think he was lying about this. She honestly hadn’t expected ever to hear him apologize. He’d tried other ways of avoiding having to explain himself, but had finally resorted to the truth--he really must be desperate. Whatever this needy, destructive thing was between them might be, it evidently affected him too. She looked up toward the front of the cafe briefly, noting the staff behind the counter watching them in concern before her attention was dragged back down to Petyr.

 

“I am not a good man; I’ve never claimed to be,” he hissed, eyes bright, impassioned. “I'll do anything, risk everything, to get what I want. I’ve tried playing by their arbitrary rules, and it’s gotten me nothing but pain in return. I refuse to be one of the sheep ever again. And neither are you, no matter how hard you try to fit in that tidy little pen they’ve constructed around you. But I know you want more than the world deigns to give you. I know because we are the same.”

 

The hand grasping her wrist relaxed almost to a caress when she didn’t try to pull away from him again. She swallowed down the ambivalent spike of emotion his words provoked, refocusing on her rage. “What are you getting out of this?” she demanded, gesturing to the wedding contract with her free hand.  

 

“All I want is to give you the opportunity see you reach your full potential. The true you is ruthless, ambitious, calculating-- _fucking gorgeous_ \--everything your family never understood. Why wouldn’t I want that? How could I not do anything in my power to ensure it?” He licked his lips, his expression a heady mixture of desire and something approaching awe.

 

 _Damn you._ She struggled to cling to her resolve and righteous anger, resisting the allure of his honeyed words and beguiling, practiced touch.

 

His voice softened to a low, beckoning rumble, a savage smile playing at his lips. “I'm not demanding you forfeit your soul, my dear. All I want is for you to have the chance to make your own decisions instead of someone else making them for you. And in the process, if you come to the conclusion that I’m not as much of a monster as you seem to think I am, so much the better. The question is, what do _you_ want, sweetling?” She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked her that and actually meant it. The infuriating thing with Petyr was that he was in deadly earnest but also quite aware of how manipulative he was being.

 

Sansa looked away from the too-intense look in his eyes in a vain attempt to put distance between them, the intimacy overwhelming and conflicted as it always was. She pulled her hand from his but sat back down. Her wandering gaze snagged on the contract lying on the table in front of them, and she felt a strong, almost physical draw to it, and the vengeance it offered, similar though separate from her inexorable pull toward Petyr. She wanted this, to unequivocally sever her connection to Harry, inflict some of the pain he’d caused her in return, and, furthermore, to utterly ruin her mother’s machinations, break the confining walls of tedium and duty she had striven so hard to construct around her. And, regrettably, she still wanted Petyr as well. He may yet drag her down to hell with him, but it would be her choice this time.

 

“I want him to pay,” she finally declared, looking up at him, feeling her expression grow cold and uncompromising, a sharp contrast to the heat overtaking Petyr’s. She let him take her hand again, and he leaned across the table toward her to press it to his lips greedily, possessively, like it was a precious, treasured thing he would do horrible things to keep. She felt the imprint like a burn on her skin, and suppressed a shiver, hoping that she hadn’t chosen her own destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, an update. Very sorry to keep you all waiting!


	13. Little Black Dress

She was quicker than all of her limbs, deadweight incapable of obeying her command to move. Her hand smacked at the sound until her fingers gripped the familiar rubber casing. It wasn’t until she brought the offending noisemaker under the covers with her, that she recognized it as her own phone. She wasn’t cognizant of much, but knew for certain that it was not a work day, and therefore, this was not her alarm. Too late to receive the call, she squinted her eyes and found the voicemail icon. Jeyne’s voice sounded, “Where are you? You told me yesterday that you’d be here at ten. I’ve got to go to work, Sansa. I can’t hang around here forever. You said you’d be here.”

Sansa rubbed her face, and groaned, “Ugh, fuck me.”

A rustling in the blankets beside her, answered with a happy sigh and an all-too-familiar voice, “If I must.” She didn’t realize she was naked, or _in company,_ until a pair of soft lips and rough whiskers began to trail kisses down her spine. Simultaneously, a shiver ran back up it at the tickle of what it meant.

She’d done it again.

Slowly, she peeled away the comforter, the morning light stinging her sleep-crusted eyes. Steel beams, white walls, hardwood floors, and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the bay: Petyr’s place. When he kissed the small of her back, threatening to continue his path lower, she squirmed, feeling the full extent of her nudity against his thousand-thread count sheets.

This was becoming a habit. She gathered her strength, ignoring the moisture that pooled between her legs, not yet great enough to grace the Egyptian cotton beneath her. “Stop, before you start.” She didn’t wait for a response, moving quickly to get up.

His arm shot out and wrapped around her waist, pulling her back into the depths of his bed. “I’m just trying to honor your request, sweetling.”

She could feel his smile against her ear and his erection insistent at her hip. She had to get out of there. “Shouldn’t you be up for work or something?” She wriggled free from him, searching for her clothes by the bed. A small puddle of shimmering black material condemned her from the night before. Newly single with something to prove, the little black dress seemed like the perfect solution to her office’s awkward after hours party. Sansa had only freed herself of Harry a week prior, though according to the resounding response she received from all the women in the office, she was lucky she hadn’t yet slit her wrists in despair. In a moment of rash rebelliousness, Sansa donned her naughtiest single-lady dress and held her head up high. She was sure to tell the bartender to ‘make it a double,’ quite a few times, if she remembered correctly.

“I am _up_ for _something._ ” Petyr raised a eyebrow in suggestion.

Sansa ignored his joke, trying to remember how she ended up in his bed at the end of the night. A pact with the devil was made the moment she agreed to screw over Harry, but she thought she was strong enough to slow things down, keep them at her own pace. She pulled the stretchy material both up to cover her braless breasts, and down to cover as much of her thighs as possible. Where were her shoes? “I have somewhere to be.”

As if reading her mind, Petyr pulled her bra from behind a pile of pillows at the bottom of the bed. She vaguely remembered being propped up on them, the angle not only deepened the reach, but heightened the sensation. She closed her eyes, schooling her face as she accepted the bra from him, shoving it in her purse. He yawned and stretched, slowly sitting up, the sheets gathering around his bellybutton. “Do I at least get to know who you’re spurning my advances for?”

“My...friend. Jeyne.” She didn’t mean to hesitate as she said it, but the relationship didn’t roll so easily off the tongue as it had before.

Petyr rose from the bed, not an ounce of shame to be detected, even in his semi-aroused state. Sansa had to keep her eyes up to avoid ogling the natural bob that resulted with each step. He picked up something small and black from the top of his dresser, and Sansa instantly remembered him flinging her underwear back behind him in his zeal. She sighed in relief to see that she had not chosen to wear the famed red satin ones he’d given her. His ego had no room left to grow. She silently vowed again to never let him see that she kept them. He strode over, raw masculinity dripping off of him, calling to all her most feminine places. His voice was smooth and overly understanding. “It doesn’t sound like Jeyne’s exactly your _best_ friend.”

Sansa steeled herself against the pull she felt toward him. She let him in her body, yes. That didn’t mean she was ready to let him in anywhere else. She had to stop doing this. He was getting cocky, thinking he was gaining more ground than she was giving. “Don’t confuse getting laid with a relationship, Petyr. Stop trying to insert yourself.”

He tilted his head and offered her a patient look, one that was completely undermined by the smirk that teased the side of his mouth. He held her panties out to her, and when she reached for them, refused to let go. “Did you know that you have a birthmark on the inside of your left knee? Right where it bends. Would you like to know how many times I’ve kissed it?”  

She felt a twitch below her left eye, and her palms itched to throttle him. He would like it. He would transform her need to attack into a need to be invaded, confusing the passion. She forced herself to turn and walk away, hearing a gloating chuckle behind her.

Sansa hopped in her car and sped down the road, auto safety and traffic laws be damned. Until Sansa had called the wedding off, Jeyne had been vying for maid of honor, and had loads of wedding paraphernalia shipped to her house to work on. Sansa never had the heart to tell her that her mother was making her name Arya as her maid of honor instead. She was going to break it to her at the bachelorette party, with a lot of alcohol and hot men to lessen the blow.

She put her car in park at a red light and shimmied her panties up her legs, quickly putting the car back in drive, and using her leverage on the brake pedal to lift her hips and scoot the rolled up lace across her ass. She hit the gas and told herself that she could always adjust inconspicuously as she walked. The next red light saw her smoothing her unwashed and tousled hair behind her ears. The last red light had her licking her fingers and wiping away the heavy black smudges of residual eyeliner out from under her eyes.

Jeyne had barely spoken to her after her catty text message the day she kicked Harry out. It wasn’t Sansa’s proudest moment, but she couldn’t bring herself to care too much about it either. The past week without Harry, or her mother, or Jeyne, or any of the bullshit expectations people placed on her, was _freeing._ Sansa Stark was taking charge of her life, deciding what her needs were for herself, and taking care of them, _herself._ Unfortunately, one of those needs was cash. Sansa was going to try to return as much of that mushy-gushy, completely fake and wasted junk her mother and Jeyne insisted she buy. Thankfully, Jeyne was giving her an opportunity to come pick it up.

When Sansa pulled up to the 1950’s faded yellow ranch style house, she was surprised to see her father’s big black Denali parked on the curb. Was there really that much stuff? Sansa instantly felt just how inappropriately dressed she was, as she realized that this smelled of her mother’s meddling. A week of silence was too good to be true.

If the Denali was there, so was her father. Damn it. Sansa looked down at herself and groaned. Trying to put a strapless bra on at a stop light was too complicated and would have given the traffic cameras quite a show, so it remained in her purse. She felt around her backseat for whatever she could find to cover herself. Relief and dread warred within her when the only thing she could find was a bright blue fleece coat balled up and forgotten under her gym bag, and horribly out of season. She glanced at the Denali again and resigned herself to slipping it on, knowing the minute she opened her car door, the heat would hit her.

Her pace picked up as she crossed the lawn, eyes darting around the sunny suburb. She never anticipated to be walk-of-shaming to her friend’s house, where her her father and mother waited inside. As predicted, a bead of sweat had already accumulated and rolled down her back as she rang the doorbell. The minute the door opened, Sansa rushed in to avoid any further neighborhood persecution and shook her head, speaking quickly, “I’m sorry I’m late, I know you have to get to work-”

The words fell flat in the air, her mouth forgetting to move. It wasn’t that Jeyne’s call was a ruse that shocked her, or even seeing her parents in Jeyne’s small living room, her father towering above everyone else with a worried look on his face. It was when she saw her mother sitting primly on the edge of Jeyne’s stupid papasan chair, leaning over to rest her hand on _Harry’s_ shoulder for support, that she felt pin pricks all over her body.

“No.” She shook her head, instantly rejecting what she saw. The hell with that lumbering oaf, hanging his head in disappointment, soaking up more affection from her mother than she’d ever had. Sansa whipped around and glared at Jeyne. “ _Bitch_.”

“Now, sweetheart, don’t be mad at Jeyne.” Her father raised his hands and spoke evenly, apparently playing peace-keeper. “She’s just worried about you. We all are.” His eyes softened on her. “You haven’t been answering any of our calls.” He didn’t say it, but the implication was clear, _not even his calls_.

“Dad.” He didn’t understand and she couldn’t begin to explain.

“That’s right, Sansa. We just don’t want to see you throw everything away.” Jeyne nodded her head, trying to contribute.

Her mother’s voice raised as she stood up. “Or see you hurt those around you.”

“Cat.” Her father’s voice warned.

She carried on, as if she didn’t hear him. “Look at poor Harry. Look what you’ve done to him.”

Harry slowly rose from the couch, an expression of complete and utter turmoil weakened his strong chin and wrinkled his face. What a ham. Sansa took a deep breath to stop herself from outright telling him so.

“It’s okay if you got cold feet, honey. Everyone gets nervous.” Her father attempted to refocus the group. Sansa eyed Harry as he slowly approached her, her father still talking. “Near as I can tell, Harry’s a good guy. Hard-working. And he loves you.”

“I do.” Harry came to a stop in front of her. His voice softened, “Come on, babe. We can forget about all of this.”

She wanted to say, “Are you fucking kidding me?” But, her father was there, and he was trying to be sensitive, not something he was particularly known for. So instead, she said, “No, Harry.”

Harry’s fists tightened and dropped to his sides as he cursed under his breath. He flashed her angry eyes as he said, “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

Sansa shook her head and glanced nervously at her father. What did he know? She knew it was nothing when she saw her mother scurry forward and exclaim, “Hey now! We agreed we wouldn’t get into that.”

“Get into what?” It was her father’s voice.

Her mother shook her head at him, silently scolding him for asking and then turned on Sansa. “The wedding is in less than four months, it’s time to stop acting like a child. You are throwing your future away.”

“Did you know that he’s charging me for all the shit he gave us for free? Huh? Did you know that?!” Anger was turning to righteous fury. Were they alone, she may stand her ground and scream back that yes she did know because she gave the okay. Petyr consulted with her about the things that went on with her life. He didn’t just call some haphazard, shoddy, intervention together to peer pressure her into doing whatever he wanted.

She was about to ask him if thought reconciling would somehow absolve the debt, lessen it, or at least make it more worthwhile, when her father asked, “Who’s charging you?”

“No one, Ned.” Her mother snipped, irritated by his ignorance. Or was it that she was still trying hard to keep everything a secret? Sansa looked her mother over, noting a slight tremble to her hands. She was worried, scared of exposure, but trying to mask it with her usual frigid-bitch demeanor.

“You reap what you sow, Mother.” She hadn’t realized she said it aloud until her mother whipped her head around to gawk at her, stunned.

Taking Catelyn’s moment of distraction as an opportunity, Ned asked again, “Who is everyone talking about?”

Harry ground through his teeth, “ _Petyr Baelish_.”

White noise filled the silence that followed. Her father shook his head, confusion playing across his face. Sansa pulled the coat tighter around her, mortified, watching him connect the dots. Sweat drenched her dress, her chest and cheeks reddening, both from embarrassment and the stifling heat of fleece in June.

Jeyne, who’d been relatively useless this entire time, decided to be even more so. “You look like you’re roasting in that. Why are you wearing a coat? It’s ninety-two degrees out.” She scanned down to Sansa’s legs, taking in the skimpy skirt. “What are you _wearing_?”

Sansa shook her head and closed her eyes. This had to be a dream. Nightmare, more like. She heard her mother’s disappointment, “Oh, Sansa.”

Harry, who was usually slow to the show, arrived awfully quickly. “You just came from him didn’t you? Still dressed from your date!”

“That can’t be right. He’s my age.” Ned’s voice was hollow as he talked to himself.

Sansa took another deep breath, “Harry-”

“Didn’t bother with a shower?” Harry’s voice raised.

“I expect more from you.” Her mother’s lips pursed.

“Sansa, he’s like, really old. That’s kinda gross.” Jeyne judged from her other side.

It was all too much. There were too many voices, too many judgements, all at once. She’d been trying to control herself, not wanting to hurt her father, the innocent bystander. Her silence seemed to only be enraging Harry more, because he continued to goad her. “Still dirty from spending the night with the lying, cheating, motherfucker.” He took a step forward, making a point of sniffing the air around her, and screwed his face up as if he were driving by a landfill. “I can smell ‘creepy old man’ all over you!”

Something in her snapped. She took a step forward, forgetting everyone around her but Harry. Her coat came open to reveal her little black dress from the night before, drooping lower than usual without the support of a bra to keep everything in place. Her voice turned violent as she all but yelled, “You better believe it! I spent the night cumming all over his face, and the morning riding him like we were a fucking rodeo show!” She regained control of her voice, but not the ire behind it, her fingers wiggling in the air as if walking as she spoke. “When I saw what time it was, I rolled straight off his cock and got in the car to drive here.”

Veins popped out in his neck and his knuckles turned white. For the coup de gras, she finished with, “You’ve never been much, Harry. Now, you’re nothing.”

“ _Sansa!_ ” Her mother yelled from across the room, and Sansa bit back a grin at her loss of composure.

It wasn’t until a few punches had been thrown that Sansa realized what Harry had said. It wasn’t anything creative, as to be expected, but apparently calling her a “fucking slut!” was enough to incite her father’s wrath. Jeyne’s shrill scream in the background set the tone for the sickening thuds of fists connecting with flesh. Skin scored, bruises colored, and hairline fractures grew.

“Ned! Stop this! You’re going to seriously hurt the boy.” Catelyn shouted at him. Sansa felt herself vibrate with anger that her mother chose Harry’s side, even against her own husband.

“This is your fault!” Sansa exclaimed. “There would be no Harry if you weren't so damn controlling.” Her stomach turned as she realized, _there would be no Harry._ Not, if her mother hadn't shuffled Petyr off. What would there have been instead? No. It was too much. She couldn't think about that right now, but she could make her mother pay. Sansa yelled loud enough for both men to hear, wanting them to know what their precious Catelyn was guilty of. “You knew what was going on between Petyr and I, back in high school when he was staying with us! And you never told a soul, just made him disappear. Fuck, you never even told Dad!”

Her father paused, letting go of Harry’s collar, to stand and face his wife. “Cat?” She didn’t get a chance to answer before Harry landed an unexpected punch into the side of Ned’s face. Her father roared and turned on Harry, beating the ever-loving-piss out of the ‘good guy’ he had originally advocated for.  Her mother stared at her, so much emotion boiling behind her cold eyes. Where was her ‘Family, Duty, Honor,’ now?

Harry had stopped moving and for a moment Sansa wondered if her father would stop. He’d been in the war and was known to be stuck in a memory from time to time. The smacking sounds of knuckles tenderizing muscle, finally started to slow and she knew he was coming to his senses.

His labored breaths were soundless under Jeyne’s screaming soundtrack. He staggered backwards a step, leaving Harry on the ground, and turned to glare at Catelyn, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Jeyne ran to Harry’s side, sobbing over him, “Someone call an ambulance!”

Sansa wondered if that might not be a bad idea. Her mother on the other hand, spat in Jeyne’s direction, “Don’t be foolish. He’ll be fine.” Then she turned, “ _Ned_.”

Sansa silently cheered him on as he walked past, dismissing her mother as if she weren’t there. She hollered, “I am your wife!”

Ned Stark paused at the door, his shoulders rising and falling with exertion. Sansa wondered what he’d do. Go back to his wife and forgive her, tail between his legs, in the name of honor? Or, finally hold the woman he’d spent the better part of thirty years with accountable? In the end, there were no words, just the sound of the doorknob turning before her father stepped into the sunlight. Her mother whirled around on her, “This is your fault!”

Sansa couldn’t care, smoothing her hair back behind her ears as she ran to find her father. She caught him curbside, his emotions wreaking havoc on his forehead. It was just them, no one else to interfere. She tugged the material of her skirt down on her thighs further, cursing her little black dress. She crossed one side of the stifling coat over the other, working to hide how low between her breasts, her dress revealed. “Dad?” He said nothing. She took another step forward and asked again, “ _Dad_ ?” His head lowered, disappointed. Sansa reached up, and gripped either side of his face, relieved he didn’t flinch away from her. She carefully lifted his head to meet her eye, her throat sore as she pled, “ _Daddy_?”

His gaze ran far past her, through her, and yet perfectly into her at the same time.  Blood trickled from his cheekbone down to his jaw and his bottom lip had started to swell. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand the scrutiny any longer, he closed his eyes and she knew he’d made up his mind. Tears welled up inside her under the full weight of being shunned. Her legs felt like jelly, the rush of emotion taking away her bearings. She forced them into motion, regardless, swallowing against the choke in her throat as she turned away. She’d just taken her first step, when her father’s meaty arms surrounded her and crushed her to him.

The tears that had been gathering in her eyes, spilled over and poured down her cheeks, wetting the front of his shirt. She felt like she was five years old again, bawling her eyes out after falling off her bike. Her pain only made better by her father’s acceptance. She trembled as she apologized, “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

She truly was. She was sorry that he found out that way, that she exposed his wife’s treachery. Sorry he saw her wearing clothes from the night before, that he had to defend her honor against someone as pathetic and useless as Harry, that she ever even allowed Harry into their lives.

He kissed the top of her head and rubbed his fingers into her scalp, interrupting her thoughts. He took another audible breath before letting go, keeping her at arm’s length to look her in the eye as he said, “I love you.”

She smiled back, “I love you too.”

His eyebrows drew together and his jaw tightened as he continued, “And if I ever see that man around you, I’ll murder him with my bare hands.”

Sansa’s heart stopped. There wasn’t an ounce of jest in him. He meant it. Sansa glanced around them, the intensity of his glare too much to handle. She wiped away the tears in her eyes, as she watched her mother stand on the steps, arms folded.  Her father’s voice startled her back to him. “ _Sansa_?”

She nodded, unable to answer aloud. He said nothing in return, simply walked around her and got in his car. Her mother remained on the step, unmoving. The engine started, but her father did not put it in gear. He stared straight forward, to the road ahead. Her mother kept her eyes on him.

Sansa darted a glance between the two of them, wondering when or if one would move. Finally, her father turned his head to look back towards Jeyne’s house, to Catelyn. Neither of them moved a muscle, neither did they mouth any words to each other. After a solid two minutes, her mother stepped onto the walkway, her sensible heels clicking loudly on the pavement.

They had been waiting for each other, her to see if he was leaving and he to see if she would come. Almost three decades of marriage and they still had moments of doubt. Sansa took some strange comfort in that as she watched them drive away together. Maybe it was okay that she wasn’t certain about Petyr. Sweat rolled down her thighs, and her strappy heels gouged the lawn as she walked to her car, desperately needing a shower and _out of that dress_.


	14. Swallow

Sansa cut the engine in her driveway with a relieved sigh. Surely, things could only get better now that everything was out in the open. 

That assumption was soon to be disproven.

Something was amiss. She knew it as soon as she saw the glass on the steps leading to the porch. She tried to avoid it (an impossible task) as she made her way up. The door was ajar. It looked as though it had been battered in--wood splintered the frame, the catch mechanism for the lock sitting uselessly on the entryway floor. Whatever did this used enough force to break the decorative window at the top, and dent it to the point that it couldn’t be closed all the way. Her heart thudded, dread filling her lungs with every breath.

“The fuck?”

She pushed the door open further with her foot, tentatively peeking inside, listening. All was silent. The missing television was noticed first. The cable box was gone, too. She stepped over the debris on the threshold. The DVDs, CDs, gaming consoles--all gone. Her first thought was Harry. He came by, found the locks changed, and brute forced his entry. But the more she explored the house, the more unlikely it seemed. Nor would it make sense, given that she’d seen him only thirty minutes ago, unconscious on Jeyne’s floor after his disastrous attempt to win her back.

The police were called as the damage was examined closer. One foot followed the other as the man on the end of the line assured her that a car had been dispatched. The fridge was open in the kitchen, the liquor raided. A few broken dishes littered the floor. Her bedroom was tossed. The mattress left askew, the closet ransacked, and her jewelry box missing(no real loss--just costume jewelry and a few overly twee pieces that Harry gave her over the years). Sansa wanted to sit down, and caught herself just before she did, remembering the dispatcher’s voice telling her not to disturb anything.

This was just the perfect end to her shit sandwich of a week. She laughed at the absurdity. She wanted a new start. Was this the universe’s way of granting her wish? Relinquishing her of all the useless possessions that held her down.

Two officers appeared minutes later, and Sansa was all too conscious of the fact that she was still in nothing more than her little black dress, braless--the fleece having been discarded before she left Jeyne’s place. She kept her arms defensively crossed over her chest, and tried to ignore the judgemental looks they occasionally flashed her as she explained that she was out all night. She resisted the urge to pull down her skirt. She’d be damned if these men made her feel guilty for having the audacity to go out and get laid--unintentional or not.

They left her amid the wreckage of her room to process evidence while she figured out what to do. She quickly changed into something else, and washed the remnants of the previous night's makeup away. She was just about to dial her landlord when she remembered the guidelines of their lease agreement. The ones that she, ironically, had negotiated. In exchange for a discount on rent, she and Harry agreed to handle the upkeep of the property themselves. Repairing a door frame and replacing a door would definitely fall under that category, Sansa was certain. 

Damn it.

That meant trying to deal with contractors. It wasn’t something she was unused to, but if Harry circled the wagons… God. Sansa hadn’t thought too closely about how negatively this might impact her career. She rubbed at her temple, scrolling through the list on her phone, trying to figure out who was most likely to help her under the circumstances. Organizing contract work was part of her bread and butter; contractors and realtors were always referring each other. If they chose to blacklist her for ending things with Harry, it could cost her her job. Not that she was particularly attached to it, but it would certainly make things more difficult going forward.

The first call was outright rejected. The second cited that they were booked for the next three months. By the third, Sansa was pleading. Fourth, fifth, sixth--nothing. 

That vindictive son of a bitch.

Sansa was beginning to lose hope until a message popped up on her phone. 

_Have dinner with me tonight._

It wasn’t a request. Petyr had balls, Sansa would give him that. Then, a more practical thought took root. He had contractors at his beck and call. He practically wrote their paychecks. Her fingers typed out the message before she had time to argue herself out of it.

_Pick me up?_

** ________________________________________ **

Seven thirty presented itself, and so did Petyr Baelish. The door fell open when he knocked, and he gave her a curious look when he stepped in without prompt.

“Should I be concerned?” he asked eyeing the damaged entry before meeting her eyes.

Sansa shrugged as she sat to slip on her heels. “I had unexpected guests last night.”

Taking in the state of the room, the loose cables around the entertainment center, the storage devoid of movies or music he asked, “Harry?”

“No.” Sansa shook her head as she stood to cross the room. “Definitely not Harry. He all but accosted me with my mother this morning, trying to get me to see the error of my ways.” She was unable to hide the scorn in her voice.

Petyr’s lip quirked to the side as he unabashedly watched her bend at the waist to reach for her purse. “She must be feeling cornered. Cat never was one to accept defeat with grace.” 

“You would know better than I. I wonder if I ever really knew her at all,” she sighed.

A thoughtful expression clouded his eyes at her words, her tone. Hurt. Regret. He changed the topic. “I’m surprised you haven’t had a contractor out here to board up the door.”

She debated telling him the truth, and scratched that thought immediately. “I was actually going to ask if you knew someone reliable. It seems all my contacts are unavailable for a few weeks at least.”

The skeptical look on his face told her he saw right through her. “Unintended consequences, eh, sweetling?” 

Her face screwed up in distaste as she admitted, “Something like that.” 

Petyr pulled out his phone, shot off a message. “My man will be on it first thing in the morning. But in the meantime, where are you going to stay?”

“What?” she said, absent-mindedly adjusting her hair in the mirror.

“You can’t stay here.” He gestured about the room with his hands. “Look at the state of this place. Even with a proper door and a working lock, this isn’t the safest of neighborhoods.”

Her eyes narrowed on his reflection. “It’s perfectly safe, thank you.”

His eyes trailed over the shattered jam, the limp cords, then turned up to give her a doubtful expression. “Of course. How silly of me to presume.” He grumble something under his breath as he crossed the room to slip past her. 

Sansa followed, heels shuffling. “What are you doing?”

“Packing your bag,” he said with a confident stride.

“Petyr-”

He rounded on her. “Sansa,” he said in exasperation, “you are an alluring, intelligent, beautiful woman, but you have all the stubbornness of a Stark. If you think for one moment that I am going to leave you in this wretched excuse for a house without even a lock between you and the deplorables of the world, you are out of your goddamn mind.”

Her hackles raised. “Pardon me, but-”

Her sentence went unfinished as Petyr caught her mouth in a scorching kiss. She whimpered against his lips. There was a thud as her purse dropped to the carpet, freeing her hands to grip at his lapels. His fingers curled into her hair, gripped her fast around her waist, and she felt all her protests melt away. Damn. He was uncannily good at that.

A whine escaped her when he pulled away. 

“Stay with me tonight, and in the morning if you want to leave, I’ll put you up in a hotel of your choosing. But I’m not leaving you here.” He caressed the apple of her cheek, and she finally met his gaze. There was warmth there she couldn’t quite place. She should say no, argue that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, but-

“Okay,” she nodded, released his jacket, smoothing down the fabric where it had crumpled in her fists. “This does not mean I am going to sleep with you.”

A wicked smirk broke free. “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing, Miss Stark. What a dirty mind you have.”

She pushed him away, and rolled her eyes. “Don’t get cocky. It’s just one night.” She refused to think about the fact that she’d spent the previous night at his place as well. She opened the door to her closet, rolling out an already packed suitcase, and smiled, decidedly pleased with herself. “And for your information, I was already planning to get a hotel anyway.”

“Well, I’m glad we see eye to eye on something, my love.”

Sansa nearly tripped over her own feet, but his one hand found her elbow while the other took possession of the bag. His eyes glinted as he spoke, “Come on. Let’s get you situated, and you can tell me all about your day.”

** _______________________________________ **

”So good ole Ned beat dear Harry to a bloody pulp?” Petyr laughed. “I’m almost sad I wasn’t there.” His shoulders shook even as he popped another bite of szechuan chicken in his mouth.

After hauling Sansa’s bag up to Petyr’s loft, they decided to order in rather than go out. The meal was spread out on the carpet between them while pillows propped them up. A mindless movie that neither was really paying attention to played in the background of their conversation. 

“Don’t laugh.” Sansa grabbed an eggroll from the coffee table beside her. “It might be you next. If Dad knew I was here…” she sighed before taking a bite.

Petyr chuckled. “Ah, don’t worry about me, sweetling. I’ve handled your father’s temper for thirty years. I can take care of myself.”

“Yes,” she mumbled before swallowing. “But that was before he found out you were screwing his teenage daughter.”

A peppered brow arched almost imperceptibly as he looked over the container in his hand. “But you’re not a teenager anymore,” he pointed out.

Sansa gave him a level look. “Somehow, I don’t think he cares.”

Petyr hummed. “Perhaps.”

The scene was entirely too casual. Petyr’s legs spread out as he leaned on his elbow. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, collar open, shoes kicked off. Sansa lazing on cushions across from him. She still wore her dress from when they had planned to go out, not feeling up to dredging through her bag for something more comfortable, her bare toes curling in the dense Persian rug they sat atop. 

Domestic.

It had been a long time since she’d allowed her guard down around anyone. In fact, _he_ was the last person that she could recall ever being this relaxed around. That one weekend when her parents went out of town. Arya and the boys had slunk off to do who knows what, leaving them alone for an entire day. After exhausting themselves in pursuit of more carnal exploits, Petyr just held her, situated between his legs as they watched some old Humphrey Bogart movie in his bed. They had stayed that way for hours. Hours punctuated with sweet kisses and teasing hands. She had thought then that perhaps… Sansa dismissed the thought with a shake of her head. It was a different time, and she was a different person. Though, it didn’t prevent that question from lingering. The one she kept trying to push aside and ignore. What would have happened had her mother never discovered her relationship with Petyr? Sansa couldn’t decide whether she was foolish or brave when the the urge to know became too much. 

Her brows furrowed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he said, twirling the noodles of his lo mein with a fork.

“What if mother hadn’t found out? What would have happened?” She worried at her lip, afraid to meet his gaze.

Petyr chewed on his food as his brain chewed on the question. In the silence, Sansa prepared herself for one of his classic misdirections, chiding herself for letting curiosity get the better of her. He swallowed, and rose to his feet. Confusion and disappointment must have been writ on her face, but still he gave nothing away. He grabbed the food from her, setting it on the table. 

Extending his hand, “Come. I want to show you something.” 

Petyr helped her up, and guided her over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The lights of the cityscape were projecting a litany of color. Even with the sun down, Sansa could make out everything--from the curve of the bay to the high towers of the old keep.

“Tell me what you see,” he asked from behind her, his hands sitting lightly on her hips.

“Petyr, if you don’t want to answer the question--fine--but I’m not in the mood to play your games,” she said sullenly.

He smirked into her shoulder. “Just humor me, and I promise you’ll get your answer.”

An exasperated sigh escaped her, and she looked beyond the pane. “I see the city.”

He chuckled. “Be a bit more specific, sweetling.”

“I see the parliament building.”

“Good,” he purred, pulling her closer. “What else?”

She motioned with her hand. “I see the skyscrapers downtown.”

“The financial district,” Petyr corrected, and she fought the urge to hit him. As though that mattered. “What else?”

“Petyr.” She tried to turn around and he stopped her. She huffed. “Just tell me what I’m looking for. This is getting tedious, even for you.”

One of his arms wrapped around her midsection, and she fought the pull to relax back into him. His other arm shot out, his index pointing in the direction of the campus in the distance. “What’s that?”

“University of King’s Landing,” Sansa stated, still unsure what point he was trying to make.

“That’s right,” Petyr said with a touch of pride. “Now, ask me when I bought this penthouse.”

“Petyr, I don’t care. I-”

He spun her around, forced her to meet his eyes. “Ask,” he implored. _And think_ went unsaid.

The impulse to dismiss him waned as she studied his face. There was a point to this, one that he was desperate for her to piece together: _parliament, the financial district, UKL_. 

Parliament and the financial district were easy to suss out. Petyr loves politics, and had occasionally expressed his desire to do more than observe. And his primary occupation, outside his real estate ventures, was working in finance. An industry she had once hoped to pursue herself. But UKL?

_Oh._

Her voice was quiet. Timid. “When?”

“A week before we were discovered.” His forehead found hers as he sighed. “You were always in my plans, Sansa.”

Petyr’s confession stole her breath. She shouldn’t trust him. She _knew_ she shouldn’t trust him. But with the way he was looking at her--lost, vulnerable, holding her so gently--how could she doubt him?

“Petyr, I-” she had no words. 

Rendered utterly speechless, Sansa leaned into him, kissed him softly as her arms wrapped around him. It could all be lies--every word--but they were so very sweet. Maybe just this once, just this once she’ll swallow them down.


	15. Particeps Criminis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of mixing business with pleasure...

Petyr almost shuddered as Sansa leant into him, her mouth gentle against his, accepting and warm, and he felt a frightening, precipitous pull toward the woman in his arms. The risk he had taken in revealing his lost plans had paid off, it seemed. She still may not trust him fully, but she was giving him a chance; it was an inch he'd scrape and claw to stretch to a mile. He pushed her slowly back into the window behind her, one hand cradling the back of her head as the other grasped her hip, pressing her tightly to himself. She gasped when the open back of her dress hit the cool surface, and he took advantage of it to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping into her mouth, exploring the flavors and textures so achingly familiar to him. Her arms slid upwards to curl around his neck, fingernails scratching the nape, and he was unable to contain a growl at the sensation. His hand found the smooth skin of her leg and and slid upwards--dragging the hem of her dress with it--until he encountered delicate lace hugging the curve of her hip. He wondered--as he did more often than he liked to admit, every time he fisted his cock with her name on his lips, in fact--if she’d kept his first gift to her. The shock of red against her skin was seared in his mind’s eye, the texture of it burned into his fingertips--the panties granting her already perfect body a form of profane grace, a divine indecency. His fingers slipped beneath the pair she wore now--not the ones he’d prefer but still of interest if only for what they covered--to knead the even smoother, softer skin of her ass beneath, having an almost feral desire to leave imprints in her flesh, marking, _claiming--_

At his urging, she hooked a leg over his hip, letting him grind his rapidly hardening cock against her sex, the heat calling to him even through the remaining layers separating them. She rocked her hips against him, biting his lower lip, her tongue invading  his mouth in a very welcome intrusion. Her hand somehow snuck in the nonexistent space between them to undo his belt, delicate fingers encircling his hardness, spurring his need even higher, to a level he hadn’t thought possible, an almost painful ache. He tugged at her panties in irrational frustration--as lovely as they surely were, they were in his way. Unwilling to concede the space necessary to remove them conventionally, he ripped the lacy material from her body, and was rewarded with a surprised groan from her that he echoed as his freed member slid against her dripping folds, feeling her desire coat him. He started to pull up her other leg to wrap around his waist but thought better of it, instead spinning her around with a firm grip on her hips. She immediately braced herself with her palms flat on the window, arching into him as he molded himself to her back, nipping at the creamy skin of her shoulder. They were inevitably going to make a mess of the spotless glass pane, and he couldn't be more thrilled. He'd had this fantasy since he bought the apartment--nay, the first time he toured it even--and now he could make it reality. His hand skimmed down the soft, flat plane of her stomach, over the luscious curls between her legs, slick with arousal, finding her clit to rub in firm circles.

“Petyr…” she cried, her head thrown back to allow him better access to her throat, and his own name had never sounded so good.

His fingers dipped into her, the walls of her cunt so hot and tight around them that he couldn’t hold in his appreciation, groaning as he slid his cock up and down the cleft between the rounded cheeks of her ass. She responded beautifully, thrusting back shamelessly, fucking herself on his hand like the delightful little wanton she was, breathy, needy cries dropping from her lips. He could’ve savored it forever if he hadn’t had the overwhelming need to be inside her. She protested when he withdrew his hand, but he brought the coated digits to her mouth, demanding, his voice a harsh growl, “Do you want to know how good you taste, sweet girl?”

She nodded--filthy, depraved, perfect, _his--_ and sucked her own juices from his fingers, tongue swirling with the same expertise that had brought him to his knees when applied to his cock. He rewarded her obedience with a sudden thrust, filling her completely, giving her only a breath to adjust to him before setting a savage rhythm, working to drive himself so deep that there could _never_ be anyone else for either of them. He pulled down the material of her dress and bra to reveal her breasts, letting him tease the rosy tips into peaks, cupping the fullness in his palms. It was pure heaven, feeling her pussy grip him with every single stroke, matching his motions with her own, the movement of her hips decadent and sure. Sweat began to bead on his brow, and he licked the salt off her skin from her own exertions, sucking and nipping at the spot where elegant neck met strong, slim shoulder. He noticed Sansa’s eyes shut in pleasure--that simply would not do. He curled a lock of her hair around his fingers and tugged her head back lightly.

“Look, sweetling,” he murmured into her ear, demanding she acknowledge the sheer beauty of their reflection--a debauched, perfect sheen over the light and dark outlines of the cityscape, features sculpted by the sweet agony of pleasure. He wanted her to see herself for the goddess she was like this, a perfect counterpart to himself, the silver-tongued devil over her shoulder, worshipful and corrupting.

_Look at us,_ he didn’t say, not yet willing to venture that far lest she recoil once again at the implied intimacy, the bond between that them she still seemed resistant to conceding, much as he tried. Her eyes met his, the blue of them bright even in ghostly reflection, muttering prayers that formed his name under her breath.

“Cum for me, Sansa,” he  commanded, covering one of the hands bracing her against the window with his, the other occupied with its attentions to her clit, rolling and pinching and rubbing with his fingers to stoke her ever higher. She began to shudder and shake around him, her moans reaching a fever pitch. He loved this, _loved_ \--

“-- _Sansa--_ gods-- _fuck_ !” His orgasm hit suddenly as he carried her through her peak; it was as if she was able to extract his very soul through the tip of his cock, filling her with his seed in ragged, deep strokes. He buried further endearments--words she wasn’t yet ready to hear, if her reaction earlier was anything to go by--in the bite he applied to the crook of her neck. Their breaths were almost synchronized as they came down from that blissful high, fogging the glass they leant against, his arms wrapped tightly around her--for the moment sated, content with her where she _belonged_.

***********

Sansa knocked on the walnut-paneled door in front of her, swallowing down her trepidation. She eyed the pretentious gold plate proclaiming the office’s occupant-- _Hibald Byrns, Senior Partner_ \--with no small measure of disdain. “Enter,” a gruff voice answered from within.

She let herself inside, offering the balding man in the tacky blue seated at the overlarge desk in front of her a shuttered smile. “Good morning.”

“Sansa, thank you for coming.” Byrns cleared his throat officiously, shuffling papers seemingly at random in front of him to make himself appear busy. _As if she had any choice._ The memo had been waiting for her at the top of her inbox, an ominous start to the day. She’d arrived a tad later than her normal time, but still earlier than most of her colleagues. She had a feeling the topic of the meeting would be rather more dire than punctuality, however. “Have a seat,” he offered, giving her the choice of either of the two ugly, uncomfortable chairs in front of his desk.

“Thank you,” she answered automatically, sitting primly in the closest.

Her boss sighed dramatically, folding his hands to craft a gravity she didn’t trust. “I have some bad news.”

“Oh?” Sansa offered warily, refusing to reveal any fear to those beady, avaricious eyes.

“There’s been a formal complaint lodged against you by one of our associate firms. It’s been alleged that you’re engaging in improper means to ensure patronage of a client,” he accused, his manner shifting from rueful to judgemental. “You can’t imagine how disappointed I was to hear it. That is simply not how we do business here at Byrns and Cornyng.”

_Bullshit._ She knew for a fact that at least one of her coworkers--a married father of three, no less-- was carrying out a rather public affair with one of his client’s secretaries, the latter half of the partnership was on extended leave tending to a very expensive cocaine habit, and Byrns himself had an entire second family tucked away in Dorne that he skimmed money off the books each month to support. Add in the sexual harassment lawsuit she could easily bring against several of the senior partners (and have her unfortunate experiences corroborated by most if not all of the female staff)--pretending the company was some paragon of virtue and ethics was ludicrous, to say the least. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she replied carefully.

He leaned forward, assaulting her with his breath--which somehow always reeked of coffee and onions no matter the time of day--to deliver what he clearly considered a decisive blow. “What exactly is your relationship with Petyr Baelish?”

The accusation wasn’t a surprise in the least, but the hypocrisy rankled. Sansa had worked hard to break into the world of commercial real estate. It was one of the last boys’ club holdouts in the industry, where deals were still made over lap dances and beery golf rounds. She’d gotten where she was by demonstrating competence and drive, fighting the expectations that came with having a pretty face every aspect of the way. To have all that discounted because of the puerile whining of her manchild ex-fiance was infuriating. “I don’t see how that’s any of your or anyone else’s business,” she returned cooly.

“You and your actions represent this firm,” he declared, trying to intimidate her with a glare. “Allowing this sort of impropriety would send the wrong message--”

“Where exactly are these allegations coming from?” she interrupted, keeping her tone level. She knew full well it was Harry, the cowardly prick. Funny how no one had a problem with her dating him at the time, the man who’d taken to the bastion of masculinity they worked in perfectly, practically an adopted son of the senior management at his firm and hers. Somehow that particular conflict of interest had been of no concern whatsoever. Her establishing independence from him, on the other hand, well, evidently, that was unconscionable.

“It would be unprofessional of me to divulge that,” Byrns deflected. “What matters now is what must be done about it. If I may be blunt, I don’t see how you would be able to continue working in this environment with the way things are,” he hinted heavily.

“Are you asking me to resign?” she inquired mildly. Their intentions were clear; forcing her to walk away without any sort of benefits package, no doubt, cleanly washing their hands of her without having to appear persecutory. _Like hell._

He seized on the opening with disgusting enthusiasm. “I believe it would be best for all involved, and your own well-being and reputation in particular,” he claimed, mixing false concern for her with a healthy dose of patriarchal disapproval.

“To clear my conscience, you mean,” she clarified, pasting a thoughtful look on her face.

The greedy fool took the bait, nodding eagerly. “Yes, precisely.”

She hummed in consideration. “I’m afraid there’s a great deal more that’s been weighing on my mind for quite some time now,” she said slowly, tingeing the words with concern. The fat fuck sat up straighter, finally catching on that the interrogation may not go the way he planned. She wrinkled her brow, continuing, “Some of the things I’ve seen over the years of working here were, quite frankly, disturbing.”

Byrne’s eyes narrowed, expression growing thunderous, “Now see here--”

“I might feel compelled to share a great many of these things, depending on the circumstances,” she drawled smoothly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Are you threatening me, Miss Stark?” he blustered, face mottling unpleasantly, jowls aquiver.

“Not yet. I’d hoped not to have to,” she replied evenly, keeping her posture as relaxed and calm as her opponent’s was not.

He spat, “Who do you think you are--”

“If you try to force my resignation, I’ll let your wife know exactly where that ten percent of the profits she never sees is going,” she interrupted. He paled, eyes twitching in dumb, confused fury. She smiled coldly. “ _That_ was a threat. I’d prefer not to have to make any more, if it’s all the same to you, but I will if I feel my interests are not being represented fairly.”

He could only sputter and snort angrily in reply, reminding her of a particularly dim bull.

“Now, perhaps we can avoid that unpleasantness and come to some sort of agreement?” She bared her teeth in the shark-like grin she’d seen Petyr use with great efficacy on victims before, and was gratified to see her now-powerless opponent practically quaking before her.

*********

Sansa held herself back from slamming the door behind her on the way out of her employer’s office, but it was a close thing. The next week would be a trial, but it was worth it for the severance package she’d managed to wrangle from her corrupt boss’s clutches--six month’s pay would be essential in helping her establish herself wherever she wanted to go from here, though she was still undecided at the moment. She wouldn't be getting a reference out of it, of course, but then one begrudging good word was hardly going to outweigh the damage wreaked upon her reputation by Harry anyway.

As she made her way briskly back to the sanctuary of her office, she noticed the unit secretary giving her a worried look. “Miss Stark, there's a gentleman waiting for you. He says he booked a noontime appointment but I couldn't find anything on your schedule.” The normally calm and put-together assistant fidgeted with the papers in front of her, an uncharacteristic show of nerves.

“Thanks, Mya,” Sansa replied, trying to not take her wrath out on the kindly woman. Her day just went from bad to worse, it seemed. She’d woken up late, which was entirely Petyr’s fault--she’d passed out the evening prior before she could set her alarm, and while he’d had the consideration to rouse her from sleep with his face buried between her legs, the pleasurable distraction meant she didn’t have time to pack a lunch or even pick up anything on the way. She kept the hour open for emergencies generally, but had hoped to be able to utilise it to actually eat today, as she now had a mountain of paperwork to wrap up before her departure from the firm Friday that would occupy the rest of her day.

“I’m sorry Miss Stark, but he insisted,” Mya added with an apologetic frown.

“That's all right, no harm done.” Sansa waved off the woman's concern and ignored the curious stares of several of her co-workers as she passed by their workspaces. Word of her _indiscretions_ had made its way about the office quickly, it seemed. She could only imagine how tongues would wag when her abrupt, timely exit from the firm became common knowledge.

She set her face into a neutral smile, hiding no small measure of irritation at what entitled asshole saw fit to commandeer her lunch hour. The unmistakeable scent of his cologne gave him away before even she opened the door. _Of course_. She abandoned the polite mask and pushed her way into the room with little ceremony. Petyr stood by her desk, apparently in the act of rearranging things on it, which made her fume inwardly. He looked up with a smirk, not an ounce of contrition for interrupting her day and getting caught snooping through her things evident in his manner.

“Good afternoon, Miss Stark,” he drawled in welcome, emphasizing the sibilants in a manner that sent tendrils of heat down her spine but she refused to acknowledge.

“What are you doing here?” Sansa demanded, shutting and locking the door behind her to keep out any busybodies.

He retrieved items from the floor and placed them on the space he'd opened up with no small ceremony, looking up again for her approval. “You mentioned not being able to get lunch this morning, so I brought a little something,” he replied with affected understatement.

“You shouldn't have, really,” Sansa snarked back, letting annoyance drip heavily from her words. She took in the pile he'd made on her desk with ambivalence which her traitorous stomach betrayed with a grumble. The bags and containers were unmarked, but the delicious scents of the food within gave away the source as one of her favorite restaurants even before he unveiled each dish with relish. He’d even furnished a dainty slice of lemon cake (their specialty), and the flatware looked to be stolen from the place as well. She wasn't aware the finicky Volantine establishment even offered take out, much less for lunch. From the level of expectant smugness oozing out of Petyr, she guessed they didn’t, and had required significant persuasion--monetary or otherwise-- to fill the order. Oh gods, he was trying to impress her again. It was equal parts endearing and exasperating. He often behaved as if ‘appropriate’ was a foreign concept to him, but Sansa knew better; he just didn’t care.

“Your office assistant is most protective,” he remarked, watching  her assess the offerings with unconcealed interest.

“She's an excellent judge of character,” Sansa retorted, giving in to her starvation and grabbing the plate of curry chicken, ignoring the gleam in Petyr’s eyes.

“The rest of your co-workers seem rather inquisitive as well,” Petyr observed as he selected one of the pasta dishes, offering no complaints when she brazenly snagged the lobster tail off of his plate and added it to her own. “Aren’t you concerned locking the door with me here will spread rumors?”

Sansa shrugged, thoroughly enjoying her bite of the melt-in-your-mouth lobster flesh almost drowning in compound butter, and swallowed before answering. “They already think we're shagging in here.”

His eyes lit up with interest, still neglecting his own plate in favor of watching her eat. “Do they now?”

“We’re not going to do that,” she returned flatly, attempting to disabuse him of the notion before he got carried away, but she could tell he'd merely tabled it for later. She consumed a few forkfuls of the spicy chicken before explaining. “There’ve been complaints about my ‘unprofessional’ relationship with you, and my boss just attempted to force me to resign.”

His expression darkened in anger on her behalf, which was nice, if unnecessary. “What are you going to do about it?”

She scooped out more of the lobster from its shell thoughtfully. “Turn over your account to someone else, I suppose,” she presumed, enjoying Petyr’s irritation with her flippancy.

“Thank you for the clarification, that was my primary concern after all,” he ground out. “What was your answer to him?”

She couldn’t fight the self-satisfied smile overtaking her face any longer. “That if he didn’t hand over a _very_ generous compensation package for my silence, he’d find himself inconvenienced by a series of scandals that would be much costlier to him, in the long run.”

He grinned, looking quite pleased with her ruthlessness. “Good girl,” his voice a rumble that she felt low in her belly; his praise should not have that much effect on her. She shrugged it off in favor of stealing more bits of seafood from the plate he was failing to consume himself. He eyed her in speculation. “Do you want me to back out of the deal?”

She chewed a piece of chicken in thought. If they were willing to burn bridges with Petyr, it marked them as even more asinine than they let on, considering the stranglehold he now had on the market. Perhaps they didn’t actually consider _her_ to be of enough consequence to him to matter. She wasn’t entirely sure what he was playing at, giving her this control--power, really--but it was a heady thing. “No, it’s not worth it,” she decided finally.

“How much damage would need to be done before you consider it worth the effort?” he inquired darkly, the lethal edge to his tone making her shiver even when not directed at her.

She frowned, uncertain. “What are you proposing?”

His eyes flashed steel, his voice a husky purr. “Do you want to make them pay as well? For denying you the respect, the rewards you deserve?”

This was madness, clearly. She knew that he often traded in the murky gray between legal and outright not, exploiting the weakness and folly of others without restraint or regret. If she joined him on this path, there would likely be no return, and the consequences of it were unknowable. She laughed, covering her unease with black humor. “At the rate you fuck people over, you really expect me to trust you enough for that?”

He looked a bit hurt at the accusation but covered it quickly with a leer. “With you sweetling, I’d much rather explore the benefits of a more mutual partnership.”

She assessed him closely, looking for the angle benefiting him to her detriment and not finding it. “I’ll consider it,” she conceded.

He smiled, discarding the container of pasta in favor of the slice of cake. He held it out to her in offering, and she plucked it from the plate, eschewing the latter and fork both, enjoying the way his gaze grew heated in arousal as he watched her nibble at the pastry. “It’s impolite not to share, sweetling,” he murmured, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Pardon me, Mr. Baelish,” she snickered, thoroughly unrepentant, offering the ruined slice to him, icing coating her fingers messily, feeling twisted satisfaction with the pleasing notion of him eating out of her hand. He seized her about the wrist, drawing her hand to his mouth. He consumed the remainder of the dessert in a few bites, but seemed much more interested in licking the sweet concoction off of her fingers. When she tried to reclaim her trapped limb, he used the grip on her wrist to pull her off-balance toward himself, his free arm wrapping around her to press her firmly against his erection. He relinquished his grip on her hand only to claim her mouth instead, chasing the taste with his tongue, devouring her, then pushed her slowly back toward the wall behind them. So she was going to let him fuck her in her office after all, she reflected with little regret. If the rest of the world already thought the worst of her, why put the effort into being anything else?  

*********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sound like a broken record at this point, but thanks to everyone following for your patience. I hope this installment lives up to the wait. Thanks for reading!


	16. A Loaded Deck

It was more romantic to say that her mouth tasted of something sweet or minty, but it didn’t. It simply tasted of  _ Sansa _ , a flavor he’d craved since the first time he’d encountered it. It was indescribable and completely irreplicable, and in eight years he knew he’d never rest until he felt it again. 

She smiled as she pulled away from him, letting him feel the world around them come into focus again. Her voice was warm as she said, “I’m just gonna go freshen up before we grab dinner.”

Petyr nodded, trying to not appear as affected as he was. This was a dream come true for him, and he knew the only way to keep any grip on it was to maintain the upper hand. Sansa loved a strong, controlled man who brought his experience and ruthlessness to the table. She did not fall for boyish grins and starry eyes.

When she turned towards the bathroom, he kept his head down at his desk as he let his eyes travel up her creamy thighs, so exposed in such a short skirt. He licked his lips reflexively, trying to abate the hunger that she created in him by doing something as simple as walking. He told himself to get a grip and started to flip through the portfolios on his desk. He had been picking through the various applicants all vying for a position as his personal assistant when Sansa stopped by to deliver some documents. They were documents that could have easily been sent electronically, he couldn’t help but note. 

If she was motivated enough to find an excuse to see him, she may be so inclined as to let him take her home. Where, he might add, she hadn’t left since he’d shown her his rather deliberate view. A fool would get his hopes up and allow himself to believe she’d moved in, however quietly. Petyr was no such  fool . He knew that his luck could turn in an instant, no matter how much his skillfully card-counted hand promised him otherwise. 

Sansa listened to logic, more so than most. Even if her heart wanted her to stay with him, she would require a justifiable reason that would allow her to do so. As the days passed, her acceptable excuse would be diminishing, he was sure of it. She would then have no choice but to either leave--something neither of them wanted, or admit her feelings for him. He’d been vulnerable with her more than he had ever been before, and the score could do with a little evening. 

He would have her in every way possible. Body, mind, heart, and dare he stoop so sinful as to want her  _ soul? _ The image of her perched on her barstool, wearing only a semi sheer slip, waiting for him, came to mind and said,  _ yes. _ The heady aroma of her arousal on his fingers said,  _ of course you do _ . The tangy taste of her flesh under his tongue said,  _ I can settle for nothing less _ . Knowledge of what it felt like to press his body against hers, so soft and supple made him admit,  _ I need it.  _ The dark resolute sound of her voice as she said, “I want him to pay,” made his heart cry out,  _ Fuck yes! Give me her soul! _

Petyr loosened his tie and cleared his throat, frowning at the bulge in his pants preventing him from standing to cross the room and pour himself a drink. He tried not to think of how odd it was to become physically aroused over the idea of corrupting a lover’s immortal soul. He snickered to himself thinking, _ how gothic of me _ . He had told her that he wasn’t looking to do that, “corrupt” her, and he wasn’t entirely lying. One might argue that he’d already done that, eight years ago, in a lounge chair, legs spread, sneakers hovering over his shoulders. He admonished himself for allowing that line of thought, as he’d never get the blood flowing to other parts of his body if he kept that up. 

It was then that something occurred to him, aside from the fact that Sansa was still in the bathroom. When he thought of how he wanted Sansa, _all of_ _Sansa_ , he’d done so with recent memories. For eight long years, he’d been sifting through a collection of images his mind captured during their brief clandestine time together. He’d manipulated himself to completion on her perky sixteen year old form countless times. Fantasized about her padding around his apartment in nothing but an oversized university sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, giggling as she told him that she had to get back to class.

He had not pictured the woman in his life now, not that he didn’t know that she’d grow to be someone strong and capable, but it was different to see the vision realized. The years had been good to her, giving her a depth and determination that was awe inspiring. Now when he thought of her, it was this powerful presence that demanded his attention, filling all his senses. If he thought she had a hold over him before, planning his place of residence around her so early on, he knew for certain that she did now. 

Sansa was due to appear any moment, so he hadn’t looked up when he heard the door open, thinking it was the one to his bathroom. He smiled listening to heels click across the floor towards him. “Ah, you’re--”

A dozen roses, dyed various shades of blue, rained down upon him. Petyr flinched in surprise at the unexpected assault, and then looked up to see fury in the form of Catelyn Stark, fuming on the other side of his desk. Her voice was hoarse as she accused, “You find this amusing!” 

“Catelyn, what brings you by?” He smiled, acting casual as he plucked flowers from his lap. He examined them as he did, disappointed at how tacky they looked, nothing like the one of quality that he’d left with Sansa on their last night together. He glanced at the rabid woman in front of him wearing a dress suit, though he was certain she’d never worked a day in her life and had no call to dress as if she did anything other than lounge around her house, moving from one arm chair to the next. Perhaps it was fortunate that the cheap bouquet be gifted to her. Their fraudulent appearance, matched hers so well. 

Her hand flew up, displaying the card his last assistant filled out per his specifications. The matriarch of the Stark family, former childhood friend and Tully princess bared her teeth at him as she read it aloud, “ _ Thank you, your efforts have only expedited Sansa’s and my relationship. _ ” 

Petyr smirked, “I thought it was only polite to show my appreciation.” He glanced at the bathroom door, realizing how inopportune of a time it would be for Sansa to finish with the facilities just then. “After all, you did all the heavy lifting for me.” 

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again: leave my daughter alone,” she snarled, flicking the card at him. 

“Oh, I’m quite sure that you know exactly what I’m referring to.” He grinned so hard it hurt. He knew he shouldn’t have sent her the flowers, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to gloat. Sansa wasn’t supposed to find out. Catelyn had a lot of pride, and would never have mentioned it in front of her, not if she knew she were there right then. 

Sansa would be angry about the flowers, his cocky gesture behind her back. He needed to change the focus, so he drew a wild card. “Sansa thinks Harry pulled some strings to get her blackballed at work, but we both know it wasn’t him. Don’t we?” 

Cat instantly grew defensive, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Someone’s bothering her at work?” 

Petyr scoffed, standing up as he did, now that he could. Cat had stormed in and quelled any desire that had been swelling in his pants for the woman still on the other side of the not-so-soundproof door. If he was going to be subjected to Catelyn’s dramatics, and later, Sansa’s ire (for surely she was hearing every word), he would at least do it with a drink in hand. 

Clearly trying to maintain some of the energy she had when she strode in, Catelyn repeated herself, “Stay away from my daughter, Petyr. I mean it.” Then she toted the company line, “Harry is a good man.” 

Unwilling to stop or even delay the first response that came to mind, Petyr let it fly, “But not a very bright one, is he?” 

Catelyn pursed her lips, unable to deny it. She’d always been so poor at lying growing up. Maybe over the years she’d become more proficient with it around her family, but not in front of him. Petyr could always sniff it out. 

He chuckled a little, knowing that Sansa would hear him. “Stark is a powerful name, is it not?” 

She lifted her chin, inhaling forcefully before she promised him, “There is _ nothing _ I wouldn’t do to protect my daughter from you.”

“Control her, you mean?” He knew he was winning points with the beautiful woman who shared his bed, at that comment. She would be particularly upset to hear that her mother had met with her bosses, dragging this domestic discord into her professional life. He would be there to comfort her, in  _ their _ home. 

The Stark matriarch stepped forward, her finger pointed towards the ground for emphasis as she said, “I mean,  _ parent _ her!”

He was surprised to see that Sansa was remaining put. Petyr would have thought by then she would have come busting out of the bathroom, ready to tear her mother down. Instead he remained stuck with the woman. He sighed, “What is it that you have against me anyway?” 

“Aside from the fact that you’re over twenty years older than her?” Catelyn quipped, folding her arms under her chest. 

Petyr shrugged and flashed her a reprehensible grin, “Are you jealous?” 

“ _ Of what? _ ” She yelled, her cheeks reddening.

Such a visceral response was the perfect lie detector, and Petyr sipped his drink to contain the pleasure he was deriving from this little unexpected interchange. He made it a point to lower his voice, not wanting his lovely sweetling to hear. “You had your chance Catelyn. You chose not to take it.” 

She rubbed her palm over the elbow it held and laughed, blinking up at the ceiling. If she was hiding tears, she was doing a poor job of it. Time had not developed her character much at all, though it was hard to do that for people who felt as though they were perfect enough. “Petyr, why in the world would I have wanted you? Especially after you slept with my sister?” 

He felt his jaw tighten at the memory of the Tully girls’ trick. They were at a party when Catelyn had texted him, everyone was staggering drunk, as inexperienced imbibers tend to become in the early days of their alcohol experimentations. She told him she was in one of the upstairs bedrooms, feeling sad after Brandon left her, and needed her best friend to come comfort her. He had felt her interest for quite a while, though blue blooded breeding prevented her from ever crossing that line with him. The unspoken implication was that she would forget about society, and rules, for one drunken night in a dark room where anything went. He would have that, if that’s all she would offer. When he arrived, however, it wasn’t Catelyn he found, but Lysa. He forced the words out. “That was a set up.” 

“How else was I supposed to stop you from mooning over me?” Catelyn laughed, ecstatic to have a card up her sleeve of her own. 

Unwilling to let her better him, Petyr pressed on. “Or stop yourself from further developing your feelings for me?” He smiled over his glass, “Mommy and Daddy didn’t want their perfect princess with a nobody like me. So, like a good little girl, you made sure you wouldn’t let yourself disobey them. Tied me up with someone else, made me less desireable so you could reject the idea of me easier.” 

“I have always done my duty for my family,” Catelyn smiled proudly, as if what she’d said was something to feel proud of. 

“Ah, yes.  _ Family, duty, and honor, _ the Tully family chant. Not fighting very honorably are you Cat? Jealousy tends to tarnish that a bit.” Petyr took a small victory sip of his glass. 

Catelyn took a step towards him, eyeing him up and down as she said, “You’re so sure it was me that wanted you? It only took one message and you came running, quickly.” 

“Teenage boys often confuse relationships, wanting any act of intimacy to lead to the  _ ultimate  _ act.” He easily dismissed her claim, adding in another jab for good measure, “You’ll note I had no problem taking your sister in your stead.”

She took another step forward, creeping closer into his personal space. He would not move, not allow her the satisfaction of displacing him. Her voice was venom as she asked, “Is that what you’re doing, Petyr? Taking my daughter in my stead?” 

He fought to keep from glancing at the bathroom door. Her words so vindictive, and her body now so close to his, he would pay through the nose to avoid Sansa walking in on them right then. He raised his voice, higher than he needed to as he insisted. “I am forever teasing Ned for being so concrete, but whatever genes he donated were obviously necessary in counteracting yours. I shudder to think how Sansa would have come out, if your genetics dominated.” He turned to pour himself another glass, not because he wanted one, but to have an acceptable reason for slipping further away from her. “She’s perfect, Catelyn. Much more so than you ever were. Go home to your husband, good ol’ Ned. Thank your lucky stars he turns a blind eye to your ugly side.” 

She stood silently for much longer than he would have expected. Then she turned and took a step towards the door. Her voice softened, a clear manipulation. “We used to be friends, Petyr. Even after Lysa, we used to be friends.” 

Petyr knew it was disingenuous, only spoken to upset him, but it had worked, to some degree. He had missed her friendship, even if he wasn’t sure why. Sansa more than filled that void, however, and he hadn’t really thought of their friendship until she tried to use it against him. Regardless of how he felt deep down, he countered her as he knew he must. “Funny how we couldn’t be after Sansa? When it wasn’t on your terms. When it was more than once. When it actually meant something to me.”

“I won’t feel sorry for a creep chasing after a girl twenty years his junior.” Catelyn didn’t bother to raise her voice, or offer any of the hatred she did earlier. Instead, she showed him only sad, tired eyes and spoke on a sigh.

He nodded once and retorted calmly, “And I won’t feel sorry for a woman who’s lacking closure for the life choices that disappointed her.”

There were no more words, no more scowls or smug smiles, just a collective exhale as she walked out. A couple of minutes had passed before he cleared his throat and braced himself for Sansa, calling out, “She’s gone.” 

The door to the bathroom swung open, slowly. The look on Sansa’s face was a cross between horrified and enraged. That comforted him some. Unlike her mother, she was much more capable of hiding her feelings, the fact that she would display them so openly to him right then gave him hope that she would recover quickly from this new found information. He poured her a drink and started to shuffle the cards for her, “I’m sure you have questions.”

To his surprise, she shook her head, “Not really.” 

“That’s doubtful,” he pressed. Her expression had told him that she was riddled with them. 

She smoothed her palms over her skirt, as she tended to do when she was trying to calm her emotions. “There are all the obvious ones that don’t seem to matter right now. Least of all being, why didn’t you tell me if you knew it was my mother that had been meddling with my work?” 

He was quick to answer, “You may not have believed me. I’m not exactly someone you trust.” 

“I wonder why!” A hot flash of fury tore across her face. “You say ‘mutual partnership’ and then I find out that you know things that concern me, that you don’t share with me-- _ your partner _ .”

“I knew it would come out naturally. It’s often gentler that way.” He reached for her. 

She swerved to avoid his hand. “That’s a cop out.” It was during her maneuver to avoid his touch that she noticed the flowers scattered on his desk. As if in a trance, she quieted and  glided towards them, lifting one to inspect it. “ _ Blue roses _ ,” she said more to herself than to him. 

He used her distracted state to his advantage and moved behind her, surrounding her with himself as he whispered over her shoulder. “I thought they were a nice touch.” 

When she didn’t answer, he set his drink down on his desk and moved his hand to slide over her stomach, holding her. “She wanted this wedding, I thought it was best to use the bouquet you’d picked out for it, to send her the message that it wasn’t happening, and that her efforts were only driving you away further.” 

Sansa fingered the flower, not moving when he pressed his lips to her shoulder, or let his other hand glide up her back. It wasn’t sexual, but it was greedy of him, nonetheless. She whispered back to him, “Do you recognize these flowers, Petyr?” 

He smiled, knowing that she was referring to the one shared between them eight years prior. He felt much more confident in his hold of her. “Of course, sweetling. I find it very touching that you picked the flower I gave you as the flower of your bridal bouquet.” His lips moved to her ear, his words grew more blatant, “A silent symbolic cry for the man you truly desire.”

Sansa turned in his arms at that. She did not give him the lusty look he’d thought he’d been cultivating in her. Nor did she have an angry fire in her eyes as she was known to when moved by emotion. Instead, her face stared back at him completely blank. He saw blue come into his field of vision and glanced down to see her laying the long stem rose against his chest, waiting for him to accept it. He furrowed his brow, trying desperately to read her. Her voice sounded miles away as she said simply, “Mother picked out the bouquet. Not me.”

He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling her slip through his fingers. She didn’t stop, didn’t look back, just walked out. He stared down at the rose in his hand and felt a weight settle on his chest. The irony of the way she left him behind, sadly, was not lost on him. 

 


	17. Trust and Truth

The rumble of the lock in the door was a grating backdrop to Petyr’s thoughts as he let himself into his loft. He’d made a muck of it, overplayed his hand, and went bust. That’s not to say he was giving up. Quite the contrary. Sansa needed space. That much he realized when she walked out on him, and he was prepared to give it to her, if somewhat reluctantly. Still… The idea that he was stepping into his now vacated penthouse didn’t do much for his mood. Or maybe not.

Crossing the threshold, he couldn’t help but notice the kitten heels Sansa had worn today poised by the entryway.

Further inside, he saw her sitting on the sofa, back to him, legs crossed as she looked out over the city. Her luggage was packed, sitting off in the distance.

The words were on his tongue — _Please, stay_ — but they didn’t pass his lips. Instead, he made his way to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a stiff drink. Almost offered her one, except that would break the silence and he wasn’t certain he was ready for that — wasn’t certain that his _uncertainty_ wouldn’t betray him.

Her voice cut through him as he took his first sip — soft, breathy, reverent. “It is a beautiful view.”

“It is,” he agreed, still staring at her back. “I thought you’d be gone already.”

He watched as her head dipped. Sansa was fussing with something in her lap. “I should have, but…” She turned her head, her sleek profile darkened against the city lights, “it felt wrong somehow.”

Hope flared in his chest. He gulped it down. “You could stay.”

“No.” Laugh mirthless, red hair swayed. “I can’t. Not now. I thought...” Her voice trailed off, words hanging in the ether.

“What?” _God, please tell me_. “What did you think?”

“I thought-” she sighed, “I thought I could be her for a while. The girl you bought this loft for. But I’m not her anymore.”

“I’m more than happy with the woman in front of me.”

“Please, Petyr,” she chided. “Don’t. You bought this place with a young, inexperienced, naive girl in mind. Something to turn her head. You didn’t buy it for the person I’ve become.”

Petyr almost felt insulted by the insinuation, but kept his tone neutral. “Is that what you think? That I just wanted some hot, little piece of ass traipsing through my home — in my bed — as some sort of ego boost?” 

She scoffed. “Isn’t it? Come on, Petyr. Why the hell else do men install themselves between the legs of teenager? And don’t tell me you saw something in me that no one else did. I’ve told myself that lie enough over the years that it rings hollow.”

Two can play this game. “Why did you let me, then? You could have told your mother after that first night. You could have put me in jail if you wanted to. But you put on that red lace, and you came to me. _You came to me_.” He emptied his glass before slamming it against the bar. He flinched, refilled it again.

“I wanted you — still want you,” she admitted somewhat dazedly, and his heart soared. “But I can’t trust you. After everything that’s happened, I don’t know that I can trust anyone. Hell, my own mother is jealous of me.”

Well that answered the question of how much she overheard during his conversation with Catelyn. He winced a bit, knowing that she now understood the extent of his involvement with the Tully women.

“Sansa-”

“Don’t, Petyr.” She sighed. “There’s no need. I’m sorry for what she did to you — what they did to you. I’m sorry. But I’m not some replacement for her.”

“You never were,” he was quick to point out. Sansa was so much more. “I never felt for her what I feel for you.” He choked out the words, the closest to the truth that he would allow himself. “I need you, Sansa.”

“You don’t need me, Petyr.”

“I do. How can I prove that to you?”

Sansa considered his words, hands still toying with whatever object she held in her hands. “You can stop lying to me. That would be a good start.”

“I’ve never lied.” He waffled a bit, stating, “Omitted some of the facts maybe-”

She cut him off with incredulous laughter. “That’s still lying, Petyr.”

His throat bobbed as he sucked down more of his drink, letting her truth wash over him. He’d always been a guarded man. Knowledge is power after all, but if allowing her a glimpse of his vulnerabilities would help him keep her, he would do it. He leaned against the wall, licked the remnants of bourbon from his lips. “Okay. No more lying.”

Sansa looked over her shoulder at him then. A look of disbelief etched on her face. “Really?”

“Really,” he affirmed. “What else?”

“You say that you didn’t just want me as a sex toy. Prove it.”

“You want us to abstain from a physical relationship?” Oh, now that was borderline evil. Having a relationship with her without indulging in the physical need to have her was like advertising an open bar in front of an alcoholic — pure torture.

When Petyr didn’t immediately give his assent, Sansa shook her head. “If you don’t want to do it-”

“I do,” he protested. “I will, if that’s what you need.” Fond thoughts of the past week flit through his head. Sansa naked in his bed. Sansa naked in his shower. Sansa naked, bent over his office desk. God, he was going to miss that.

“Okay, then.” Sansa bundled the whatsit she’d been playing with in her hand, and shoved it into her purse before he could get a clear view — spiking his curiosity — before standing, straightening her dress. Preparing to leave, he realized.

“You’re going?” It came out more forlorn than he intended.

“We need space — both of us. And I still need to find a job.”

“Come work for me.” He was fairly certain the surprise on her face matched his own. He’d blurted it out without thinking. The idea of not seeing her every day causing a sudden panic.

Incredulously, she blinked. “I can’t work for you, Petyr.”

“Why not?” he argued, hysteria a barely contained beat in his chest. “I need a personal assistant, and haven’t found anyone that meets the necessary qualifications. And we work well together.”

“Petyr-”

He rambled on, “Everyone I’ve interviewed thus far has shown little to no backbone. I need someone strong willed, smart. Someone capable of calling me on my own shit.”

“Like that stunt with the flowers?” There was no malice in her voice, her tone teasing, a light smile on her face.

Good. That was good.

He bit his lip, properly admonished. “That was petty of me wasn’t it?” 

“Exceedingly so,” she rolled her eyes. “I’m just… Is it really the best idea?”

She was right, of course. It could get messy if their personal history interfered with business (especially if Catelyn got wind of the arrangement), but it was a risk he was willing to take.

“Well, as you’ve requested, we won’t be having sex any time soon, so it won’t be difficult to keep things professional in the office.” Except that it absolutely would. “And you can learn a lot.” He snapped his fingers. “Plus, I close on that building you sold me on next week. I never would have looked twice at that place without your insight. I could use you at the closing to make sure everything is as it should be.”

Sansa mulled over his words. “It would be good experience, and I have dreaded the idea of going back to residential real estate after I worked so hard to break into commercial.” Her eyes glowed at the prospect, and he knew she was doing a calculation of the potential business contacts she could make. Then, her face darkened a fraction. “But I won’t be that assistant that goes fetching coffee for meetings or runs out for your dry cleaning.”

He struggled to keep the grin on his face subdued, as he stepped closer. “I would never ask you to.” 

She quirked her head. “Pay and benefits?”

Another step. “Very generous, I assure you. We can negotiate them formally on Monday. That is, if you want the job?”

Eyes narrowed on him as she held out her hand for him to shake. He took it happily. “It seems you have yourself a personal assistant, Mr. Baelish.”

“Welcome to Mimus Capital, Miss Stark.”

In the end, he escorted Sansa to her car, her luggage in tow. It wasn’t the exact result he wanted, but it was a step in the right direction. She hadn’t rejected him outright, and while their relationship was frayed, it wasn’t severed. It could be mended — with truth and trust. Two ideas with which Petyr was outrageously disparate. 

How the hell was he going to pull this off?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, Mimus is the genus of the mockingbird. A fact I learned courtesy of expected_aberrance.


End file.
